Honor
by PennyCent
Summary: Sometimes the strongest of bonds are forged in the most painful of ways. No one knows this better than a POW. Vietnam era story following Hannibal's unit. Rated T for violence and language.
1. Prologue

******_So, here is my second shot story in my Vietnam series. This one follows after Duty, though I have tried to make it fairly easy to read as a stand alone for anyone who hasn't read Duty. While I will try and keep this fairly canon, some of the aspects of the show were a little hard to mesh with the realities of the Vietnam War. I'm hoping that this is a fair mix of both worlds. This is rated T for violence and language and may contain some brief, suggestive scenes (just putting that in there for fair warning). I must also write a sincere and HUGE 'thank you' to Tiggertoo, Quentillian, AprilDancer007 and Kiki. Thank you for your help with scenes and editing, your encouragement and your friendship. _**

******_Disclaimer: I do not own the A-team. I'm just borrowing them for a bit. _**  


**Prologue**

December 12, 1969

Ray drained down the last of his beer, clattered the mug to the table and stared down at his empty glass. No one needed a reason to drink—not here. Besides dulling the fear and loneliness, it was something to do.

But, a reason to celebrate was an _entirely _different matter.

Hell, in less than two weeks, he'd be back in Barlow Creek holding Trish. And, for added safety, his remaining time in-country was going to be spent repairing a schoolhouse in a quiet hamlet near the base. Hannibal must've pulled a shitload of strings to get on the non-combat detail, and, though the colonel would never openly admit to doing so, Ray was thankful. He didn't need Hannibal to say anything. He could see the gesture for what it was—a farewell present of sorts.

Grinning from ear to ear, Ray could feel the warm, drunken flush in his cheeks as he surveyed the club. It'd been Face's idea to go out for drinks. He'd thought they needed to let off some steam and bask in Ray's good fortune. It'd been a good call.

They'd only been in Da Nang a couple of weeks, but it'd been just long enough for Peck to settle back into his old ways. Shit, Face had probably tried to set up something stockade worthy for this outing. Unfortunately, Hannibal had other ideas about how their time was best spent.

Ray chuckled quietly to himself, picturing the colonel's expression when they'd all but announced they were going into Da Nang to '_celebrat_e.' The mixture of irritation and skepticism blazing in those icy, blue eyes shot that down faster than any words could. Plus, Hannibal had been pretty damn quick to mention he'd drills planned for them, but what had they expected? They were still on his shit list for the last time they went out carousing.

After a long, heated negotiation, headed by Face, they were granted permission to get drinks on base. Hannibal conceding at all to their whims had been a surprise, though it was clear he did so _very _reluctantly.

Ray gave a content sigh as he continued to study the packed room. Drinks on base were better than nothing.

The small, dimly lit club was slowly filling with the din of drunken conversation as weary crowds of Marines started to shuffle in—ready to numb their wartime memories before drunkenly wallowing in their longing for home.

_Home.._. Ray's booze filled mind lingered on that. To see Trish, to hold her, kiss her, just feel her again, an excited spark ran through him at that thought, but could he believe this was for real? Had he _really _made it to the end of his second tour? Christ, he'd seen so much. He'd done so much.

He let his grin slide away as he suddenly considered the men sitting at the table with him, the men he'd served with.

To his right was Sgt. Casey Callaghan, their medic and, hands down, one of the bravest sons of bitches Ray had ever met. Callaghan seemed to have absolutely no qualms about risking his life. The danger didn't matter—mortars, firefights, snipers—Callaghan's first priority was always on the wounded.

Next to Callaghan was Sgt. B.A. Baracus. The fact that the muscular Sergeant had agreed to come with them on their outing had amazed Ray, but when he actually sat down and stayed for more than ten minutes, Ray was flat out confused. BA certainly wasn't known for his social skills.

To Ray's left, Sgt. Dominic Rodrigo was rocking back in his chair. Dominic, or Dom as everyone called him, was a dependable rogue, ready to help out at a moment's notice, but only so long as it was under _his _terms.

And, seated beside Dom was Lt. Templeton Peck, better known as Face.

Ray eyed the lieutenant, his soon to be replacement. He liked the kid, but that's just what he was. With all his talent and charm, he was still just a very young man in a really shitty war. He _really _hoped Hannibal knew what hell he was doing with this choice.

Ray had to wonder how his departure would affect the unit. Apprehension and guilt gnawed at him. These were his men just as much as they were Hannibal's. They'd needed him in the past, what if they needed him again in the future? What would his absence mean?

But he couldn't stay. He didn't want to. He wouldn't do that to Trish. She deserved to have her wedding. She'd waited long enough. He'd served his time, and this wasn't his war any longer. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

"_Goddamn it!"_

Ray gave a start, nearly toppling from his chair at Callaghan's shout. Wide-eyed, he stared over at the diminutive, red-headed medic seated next to him.

Callaghan's heated gaze was fixed on Face. "How the hell did you get that!?"

Quick as a viper, Callaghan stretched across the table and snagged something from Face's hands. With a smug smile, Face held still, obviously allowing the sergeant a moment to stew.

"So…" Face said at last, his tone playful. "You've got sisters, huh?"

Leaning over, Ray caught a quick glance of the paper Callaghan held. It was a photo of seven gorgeous young women, six with raven dark hair, one red-head and all of them with the same goofy, protruding ears that Callaghan had.

"Piss off…" Callaghan snapped, eyeing his picture for a moment before pocketing it. "I don't want _you _even thinking about my sisters."

"For the record," Dom chimed in. "I wasn't the one to tell him about your sisters…just so you know."

Callaghan glared at Ray, who was quick to offer a shake of his head. No one even bothered to accuse BA. He wasn't much of one to discuss personal matters with _anyone_.

"It's ok," Face replied, flashing a dazzling smile, "I saw the picture of your mother too, so I know what they all turn into. Trust me; your sisters are safe from me. You have one god-awful, ugly mother. I don't think I'll ever burn that image out of my mind."

Amid the clatter from the rest of the bar, their little gathering had gone dead quiet. It took Ray a moment to realize he'd been holding his breath, waiting expectantly for the medic to launch himself across the table in a blaze of fury.

Finally, BA broke the silence. "Don't go talkin' about people's mamas like that, Faceman," he growled. "Ain't nice…"

And, just like that, the rage eased from Callaghan's eyes. Hell, he even started laughing. "Man, Face, you've got a huge set of balls, you know that?" Callaghan said, reclining back in his chair. "And if you ever take them near my sisters, I'll cut them clean off."

Face nodded. "Noted."

"What about what he said about your mother?" Ray asked, raising a brow, unsure if he really should've pushed that subject back into the limelight, but he was on his fourth beer and his tongue was working a lot faster than his brain.

Callaghan shrugged. "I love the woman, but she is an ugly old bird…can't change that."

"_Shit_," Dom groaned. "I thought you all were gonna end our night right there. I mean, really guys, you're gonna pull this kind of shit on us now? Come on, I just got back from Saigon…you know…after I was flown back from Japan…after having all those bullets plucked out of me."

"Here we go again…" Ray muttered. They'd only heard this story about a million times already.

"They tape the fuckin' bullets to your chest, did you know that?" Dom said, getting more animated with each word. "You wake up buck-ass naked in a hospital bed with a bullet taped to your chest. I asked them why the fuck they'd do that, and do you know what they said?" He paused, staring expectantly over at Callaghan.

The medic scowled but played his part. "No, I don't. What'd they say?"

"They said in case I wanted to keep it! Did I want to keep it? Fuck no…I wanted to keep some god-damn drawers on though..."

"Look at that fool…" Baracus growled, interrupting Dom and gesturing toward the bar. "I told him I didn't want a beer—especially not from some crazy-ass pilot."

On the opposite side of the room, Murdock stood at the counter trying to figure out how to carry six mugs of beer back to the table by himself. The bartender, looking bemused, seemed content to watch the lanky man struggle.

Then, in a fluid shifting of long limbs, the lanky pilot managed to grab three mug handles in each hand, gracefully lift them off the counter and start across the room. He nimbly skirted around a group of rowdy Marines as he proceeded along. Arriving at the table, he held up the drinks. "Gentlemen, I bring you tidings of joy and beer."

He offered a mug to BA with a lopsided grin. "Sorry big guy. The only milk they had was Water Buffalo and no one here would ever dream of drinking the water. Have you seen what they _do _in that river? And I'm not talkin' about the laundry…"

They all knew BA didn't drink. Even with all the shit they'd been through, Ray hadn't seen the man touch an ounce of liquor. So he was more than a little stunned when BA muttered his thanks and reached for the beer.

Even Face seemed intrigued. He raised a brow, watching the large sergeant lift the beer to his lips.

By the looks of it, the drink barely wet the man's tongue before he grimaced and set the mug roughly back down. Ray bit back his laughter—which was more than Face and Callaghan had done. Maybe they should've warned BA that the beer here tasted about as bad as piss, but what fun would that have been?

"Your drinks, gentlemen…" Murdock chuckled, sliding beers over to Ray and Dom. "BA _highly _endorses them."

Ray grinned. "I can see that." He liked the pilot. There was something comforting in that soft southern drawl and the man's quick, zany sense of humor.

Dom absentmindedly took his drink from the captain. Something had been distracting him to the point he'd missed BA's momentous beer sipping moment. Ray followed his gaze and found that it was fixed on a pretty, blond nurse in the corner.

"Hey, you know you can talk to them?" Ray asked. "Women, that is. The blonde ones in US uniforms even speak English."

Eyes still on the shapely figure, Dom smirked. "Well, I _did _get some action back in Saigon...didn't need any English then."

Face leaned back in his rickety chair as he took a long pull off his beer. "Nope, just twenty bucks."

Callaghan snorted. Murdock sported an even wider grin than before and BA….well, he kept frowning down at his mug of piss flavored beer, acting as if he hadn't heard a word they'd just said.

In a flash, Face was standing. With a confident smirk and cool gaze settled on the nurse, his intent was clear.

"Hey," Dom huffed. "I saw her first!"

Already two steps closer to the nurse and obviously not about to change his destination, Face replied, "Yes…you did, and that's why I waited this long." And then he was gone, weaving his way carefully across the room.

"Damn, he's one cocky son-of-a-bitch…" Callaghan muttered in awe as they all watched the young LT approach the nurse.

"Yep," Ray chuckled before taking a sip of beer.

Dom was sullen at first but his expression slowly twisted into amusement. "I wonder what they're saying."

"Well," Murdock drawled as he sat down. "Right now he is telling her how things would be better with gentlemen like us. Then he's gonna offer her a drink at our table."

As the pilot spoke, Face motioned back toward them, his dazzling grin still in place. The nurse gave him a coy smile but eyed the men at the table warily.

Murdock shifted, taking another swig of his beer. "Hmm, looks like she's not so sure about us. " He cocked his head at BA. "Maybe you should try not to look like you're gonna eat her, ok, big guy…not yet at least."

The sergeant glanced up at Murdock and let out a low growl before redirecting his potent scowl back at the nearly untouched beer before him.

Ray laughed, but, for the most part, his attention was set on Face and the nurse. Was this really the man that was going to replace him? He watched as Face discreetly motioned toward the bartender—ordering drinks for himself and his new lady friend.

In one smooth gesture, Face offered the nurse a hand and, after she took it, he slid her up from her chair. She giggled as she rose, finding herself nestled close to his chest. He played it off nicely, quickly turning her and maneuvering her through the crowds, his arm slipping comfortably around her waist.

By the time they made it back to the table, the bartender had delivered their drinks. Only Face could have an order brought to a table in Vietnam as though it were a civilized place to eat and drink.

Face pulled out a chair, offering the seat to the slender beauty he'd brought over. She smiled and sat.

Dom's crooked grin beamed over at the woman, his hungry gaze searching her a little too intently. "Heya...uh...yeah..."

And, just like that, her smile was gone as she stared back at the jabbering man seated beside her.

"This is Sandra," Face offered smoothly as he nodded his thanks to the bartender and slipped him some cash. "And, Sandra, this is Dom, Murdock, BA, Callaghan and Ray."

Callaghan snorted, nearly sending a wash of beer out his nostrils. "We watch him pull off that smooth ass shit with this broad and all you can come up with is 'Heya...uh...yeah?' You're such a dip-shit."

After scowling briefly at the medic, Murdock gave a warm smile and nod toward the newcomer. "Nice to meet you, Sandra, and, please, don't mind Callaghan. I believe he was raised by rabid wolves in a harsh upstate New York environment."

"Hey, now," Callaghan chimed in. "I really don't think those wolves that raised me were rabid..." He gave a wide, toothy grin. "They were just misunderstood was all."

"It's the foaming at the mouth that gives it away, Cal." Murdock's response was quick and left the medic chuckling.

Face turned his head, leaning close to the nurse and whispering some sweet nothings that had her smiling. Her soft giggle was warm, inviting.

"I got moves like that," Dom muttered quietly to Ray.

Ray grinned. "No, you don't. None of us have moves like that…" It was true. Only Face could pull that type of shit off and get away with it. The rest of them would've had a hand-print embedded in their cheek.

Sandra flushed, suddenly seeming to remember she wasn't at a table alone with the handsome, young lieutenant. Turning toward the others, a cordial, slightly forced smile in place, her voice came out smooth as silk. "It's so nice to be away from those lugs…the Marines, that is. You know how they get—a bit grabby and all."

The statement was a bit ironic, seeing as Face had been a little touchy-feely already, but who was Ray to say so? He mustered his best look of concern and gave her a solemn nod.

"Well," Murdock said with a grin, "I've never had a Marine get grabby on me, as hard as that is to believe, but I have had them punch me in the jaw a time or seven."

Ray chuckled as he tipped his mug back for another swig. Of course, there was enough truth in what Murdock said that it _shouldn't _have been funny, and as he lowered his beer, he noted BA's tense pose. Brow knitted, eyes narrowed, the large man's fists were already clenched and ready for action as he stared across the room.

A quick glance confirmed what Ray feared—angry Marines. From the large crowd loitering on the far side of the room, five Marines broke off and started toward them.

Ray nudged Dom, getting the other men's attention as he did so. "We've got company," he warned, tipping his head toward the advancing threat.

Face frowned. "Um... you guys want to handle that, right?" He eyed Sandra thoughtfully and smiled, somehow seeming to excuse himself from the fight.

However, the mammoth, muscle-bound Marine that strode up was quick to slam a fist down onto the table in front of Face. Leaning over, nostrils flared, his words came out through clenched teeth. "And just what do you think you're you doing? That's my girl."

Face stared up, eyes cold, calculating as they fixed on the Marine. It was that slow, controlled smirk that played across the lieutenant's lips that sent chills up Ray's spine. Face had seen a challenge, and he wasn't about to back down.

"Well," Face replied coolly, "I don't see your name written on her anywhere…" He paused watching the veins start to bulge in the Marine's neck and forehead. "…but maybe I should look a bit closer…and in depth."

_Shit._

Face's smile wavered slightly as the Marine's buddies circled around him.

Ray pushed back his chair and slowly rose, making sure his movements weren't seen as threatening by the swarm of Marines. "It looks like it's time for us to be going, so if you all don't mind..."

Another of the Marines just smiled wolfishly at that. "Oh, I think we mind. Your boy over here has something to settle first."

Dom downed the rest of his beer before glaring at Face. "Great, now you've done it. You _had _to go for the girl. You just had to. I was fine with staring..." He glanced sheepishly over at Sandra. "Not in a creepy way or nothing."

Her grimace suggested she believed otherwise. If they weren't about to get their asses kicked, Ray would've laughed.

BA, Callaghan and Murdock were on their feet, each waiting patiently for the fight to either begin or abort. Ray really hoped it was the latter of the two.

But, as the Goliath Marine reached over, grabbed Sandra by the arm and yanked her from her chair, it became clear what was going to happen next. The nurse had barely gotten out her yelp of surprise before Face was at her side, freeing her from the man's grasp and tossing the first punch.

Dom slid out of his chair, away from the Marines and escorted Sandra a few paces away from the soon-to-be brawl. "Hey, Doll, you might wanna wait here," he cooed with a wink.

Ray spun around, ducking the fist of another brutally large Marine before tackling the man. They toppled to the ground, tossing wild punches and overturning tables. He was dimly aware of both BA and Murdock joining the fight, but he only caught flashes of them swinging and dodging amid the tangle of Marines.

Callaghan reappeared suddenly, sporting a bloody nose and a fresh whiskey in hand as he watched the fight. "You're all doing great. Keep it up! I'll patch you up real good when it's over, I promise."

Getting to his feet, Ray frowned. _When the hell did he find time to get a fresh drink? _Not that the whiskey did him much good. Medic or not, a Marine took him down in a hard tackle.

Ray glanced around wildly, trying to spot his unit members amid the chaos. There was still time to get them out of here before the MPs showed up...maybe.

Murdock hit a wall and slid down it. He managed to get back to his feet but slowly. Face was leaning against a table, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth as he spit out a tooth. BA was the only one still standing, and he actually seemed to be enjoying himself—go figure. As for the medic, he was…well, Ray didn't know where the hell Callaghan was.

Then, an eerie calm settled over the club. The Marines shifted restlessly, obviously not ready to give up the fight but doing so nonetheless.

Nursing a bruised side, Ray blinked._ Had they won? Were the Marines giving up? _Somehow he really doubted that.

BA pulled a Marine off Callaghan and dropped him to the side and gave the medic a hand up. Face had propped himself up against a wall, wiping the blood from his chin.

And then Hannibal suddenly stood before them, carefully eyeing each of his men. "_What _exactly is going on here?"

Only Murdock hadn't seemed to notice the colonel's arrival and had thrown one last punch, sending a Marine crashing to the ground. With a grin, he spun around and finally spotted Hannibal. It took a few slow seconds for the smile to slide from the pilot's face.

Hannibal regarded his captain for a moment, before turning to Ray. "Time to call it a night. We've got a mission in the morning. We'll be flying out at oh-six hundred." And with that he turned and strode past the Marines and out the door.

Ray was aware that the guys were talking, voicing their relief over not getting chewed out by Hannibal, but he couldn't focus on what they said. He wished like hell that Hannibal had chewed them out. The fact that he hadn't only meant one thing. Ray frowned. Whatever op they'd just been assigned wasn't going to be easy.

He thought again of Trish, of how close he was to being home and a shiver ran through him.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_December 13, 1969_

Murdock ran through the checklist for the third time.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sergeant Olsen, his crew chief and gunner, because he did—more than most mechanics, in fact. The man was a genius with a chopper, and he never did one thing half-ass. Still, Murdock circled the bird again, inspecting her carefully as Olsen watched.

The thin, ruddy faced man standing silently twenty feet from the Slick gave no indication that the scrutiny bothered him. Once or twice his fingertips came up to scratch at the patchy, stubbly growth on his chin, but that was the only move he made.

Twenty three years old, with a lazy drawl that put Murdock's to shame, Olsen had come from Crockett, Texas, some 100 miles north of Houston. Even if they hadn't exactly been neighbors—Murdock had grown up in Hart, Texas about 450 miles away—just being from the same state meant something.

Olsen and Sergeant Hayes, the chopper's other door gunner, had been flying off and on with Murdock since he'd taken up his spot on Hannibal's team. The position of co-pilot had been decisively harder to fill. Apparently, finding a fourth man in Vietnam crazy enough to fly Colonel Smith's missions was a problem. A menagerie of men had come and gone already. No one had been willing to stay for more than one flight. Of course, some creative flying might've been the reason a few of the guys had been scared off, but why earn your wings if you did't really want to stretch 'em, right?

Murdock rounded the tail boom and paused, staring at the patch job. Another foot and that hit would've taken out their tail rotor. They'd been pretty damn lucky they'd made it home from that OP at all. He ran a hand over the weld job. It was flawless and made him wonder if his crew chief spent any time away from their bird.

And, somehow, Olsen's unwavering patience during the inspection made it all the worse. Murdock shifted uneasily, drawing his hand away from the cold, smooth surface of the chopper. Any other mech would've been stuttering and rambling, but Olsen just stood there, calm as day. They both knew he had nothing to worry about, and he seemed to respect Murdock's need, however out of the blue it was, to scrutinize the bird.

Sergeant Hayes, a stocky young man from somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, was securing his ammo, silently keeping one eye on the pilot's process. If he had anything to say, he kept it to himself.

Finding everything in order, as he had the previous two go arounds, Murdock sighed and gave Olsen a nod of approval. Without a word, the crew chief set back about his business, heading to his pocket on the left side of the Slick to check his M-60 and ammo for the ride ahead.

"You know…"

Murdock flinched at the voice, spinning around to find Hannibal at his side. The colonel was staring thoughtfully at Sergeant Olsen.

"I hear he's the best."

"Yep," Murdock answered, following the colonel's gaze. "He is."

"_So_," Hannibal placed a fair amount of emphasis on that first word, letting it linger a moment before continuing. "…is there any reason you're triple checking his work? I don't know if I've ever seen you so thorough before, unless, of course, you didn't trust the crew chief."

Murdock shrugged. He wasn't about to give voice to what they'd all been avoiding. The colonel had to know that.

The rest of the team was trudging across the field, carrying gear. No one seemed to give notice to the colonel and pilot as they neared the chopper.

Hannibal's silence suggested he expected more of an answer, but the ominous feel hulking over this mission left Murdock, for once, without a witty retort. After offering up a weary sigh, Murdock took a slow step toward the cockpit, hoping Hannibal would take the hint and drop the conversation altogether.

"Does this have anything to do with Ray?"

_Damn._

Stopping mid-stride, Murdock pivoted around to face the colonel again. The pilot eased into a cautious smile. "_Ray_? Should it?"

_Why in the world should any of them be rattled before heading out on one of their best friend's last missions before he gets to be shipped home to the life he's always wanted? What could possibly go wrong?_

A soft chuckled escaped Hannibal, but even that held a strange, raspy hollowness to it. "I don't know, maybe."

For a few moments, they stood in silence. The briefing earlier that morning had made this mission out to be a cakewalk, but Murdock didn't take any venture into the Thau Thien Hue Provence lightly. A mere 50 miles south of the DMZ was not somewhere he necessarily _wanted_ to be heading.

In reality though, they had little choice in the matter. Apparently, Hannibal had, at some point in his career, gained a pretty high level of respect from a crucially located Bru-Van Kieu tribe in that area, and, as their relationship with the current Special Forces unit located near them had started to crumple, the tribesmen had asked for a sit-down with the one man they trusted, Colonel Smith.

"Should be a piece of cake mission," Hannibal said at last, "in and out." But, he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than Murdock.

Murdock gave a slight nod. He didn't agree, but there was no point in saying so.

"Hannibal, I heard you talking with Ray after the briefing…" He knew he shouldn't bring it up, but somehow the words tumbled out anyway. "…giving him an out if he wanted it. That was..." He paused, unsure how to word the compliment to his CO. "...kind of you." He should've been in the cockpit already. He should've been starting the engines, but he kept stalling, keeping himself distanced from what he usually loved.

"Stubborn fool wouldn't take it." This time Hannibal's chuckle was warm, genuine. "Said if shit was gonna go down on this mission, he'd damn well better be there for it…last mission or not."

The colonel went silent again, his grin fading as he watched his men check their gear one last time. It was only then that Murdock realized that Hannibal was stalling too. There was something all too humanizing in that fact and something unsettling as well.

Before Murdock could reply though, a baby-faced soldier paced up, breaking into the conversation with a sloppy salute. "Warrant Officer Getz, Sam Getz, reporting for duty. I was—"

Murdock cut him off. "Yeah, nice of you to finally show up. Go ahead and load up." He'd been sent fodder for peter-pilots since getting established on Hannibal's team. No one wanted to send him anyone worth losing.

The kid shrugged and opened his mouth, probably to voice some excuse, but he seemed to think better of it. After eyeing Murdock a moment longer, he turned and headed for the Huey.

"I'd better get over there and make sure he doesn't wreck the bird before we have the chance to take off," Murdock muttered, not meaning it as a joke in the least. Half the battle for him lately had been watching over the twitchy, young fledglings at his side.

Hannibal sighed, his steely gaze fixed on Ray. "Let's just try and get through this in one piece. He's counting on us."

Murdock nodded before he turned and headed toward the chopper. No matter what, he was going to do everything in his power to keep his team safe, to get Ray home.

* * *

Everything was smooth sailing, that was until they reached the LZ.

Fortunately, the Viet Cong's timing had been off. They'd opened fire too soon. If they'd let the chopper touch down, if they'd waited until Hannibal and his men had unloaded, it would've been a massacre. Instead, Murdock managed to pull up, gaining altitude as he fled the LZ. Still, the damage was done.

Slowly losing torque, the chopper began to wobble as Murdock kept adjusting his peddle pressure. He leveled off at 1200 feet AGL, just as the engine started to sputter. A quick glance at the fuel gauge confirmed that a line had been punctured.

"_Shit__…" _Getz hollered, the fear more than evident in his tone.

Limping back to base was a no go and there was nothing but jungle and mountains below. Cursing, Murdock mused, had probably been the appropriate response. Thankfully though, the kid had enough sense to make his next action a little more productive.

Relaying their coordinates over the radio back to base, Getz stared wide-eyed at the control panel.

_Geez, the guy is acting like he's never been shot down before._ _Maybe it's time to lay on a little Howlin' Mad charm to lighten the mood._

"_Call me irresponsible…"_ Murdock's voice was a bit shaky at first. Damn. He knew he could do ol' Blue Eyes better than that. More than anything, he was enjoying that look of bewilderment ebbing into Getz's expression. It was fun, after all, to keep the Newbies on their toes.

Fuel completely gone, the engine choked and died.

"_Call me unreliable…" _

No problemo. To reduce the drag on his rotor blades, he pushed the collective all the way down and checked his throttle—making sure to use his right foot pedal accordingly for the massively growing lack of torque. Heck, he could do an autorotation in his sleep.

Olsen's voice piped up over the headset. "What the hell is going on?"

"Fuel tank's been hit. Chopper's going down," Getz replied, sounding a lot braver than he looked at the moment. "Time to clinch up and pray."

"_Throw in undependable too…"_

"God-damn it_," _Hayes chimed in over the radio. "Is that crazy bastard singing?"

"That would be an affirmative," Getz answered with little to no amusement.

Keeping the nose from pitching down, Murdock checked his airspeed. He was doing good, holding at 70 knots, and rotor RPM was in the green. Now, if he could only find a place to land.

"Shit…" The word came out in a long huff from Hayes. "If he's singing Sinatra, we're screwed."

At that, Murdock chanced a look at Getz. He offered up a toothy grin and a wink, delighted when it caused the kid to pale a little more.

"_Do my foolish alibis bore you…Well, I'm not too clever, I just adore you…" _He continued, eyes back on the gauges in front of him.

The glide was going smooth, but Murdock wasn't so sure the landing would be the same. He swallowed hard and chose the softest looking stretch of jungle he could find.

"_Call me unpredictable, tell me I'm impractical…"_

_Damn. _They were coming in a lot faster than he wanted. This wasn't gonna be pretty. At 300 feet he checked his throttle again.

"_Rainbows I'm inclined to pursue…"_

He found his targeted site and eyed it carefully. With any luck, in 12 seconds, his chopper would have found a nice, safe perch in the canopy— hopefully. That was gonna have to be a hell of a lot of luck though.

"_Call me irresponsible, yes, I'm unreliable…"_

With four seconds left and one hundred feet to go, even Murdock wasn't crazy enough to keep singing—not that he could even if he wanted to. His throat was so tight he'd pretty much decided to give up taking any deep breaths until _after _they landed.

He pulled back on the cyclic stick, slowing his forward speed, initiating the flare. Heart racing, Murdock leveled the chopper, trying to bring it to a hover three feet above the canopy before he pulled the collective pitch lever full up to bleed off remaining rotor RPMs. He also tilted the nose up a little, not wanting to clip the treetops and flip the bird over.

"_Holy fucking shit…" _And those were the last words Murdock heard from Getz before the bombardment of branches started striking the chopper.

It wasn't until they were pin-balling through the trees, until he'd lost control of the Huey altogether that Murdock felt the full, squeezing pull of panic. There was _nothing_ he could do. No matter what he tried, he knew he couldn't make it stop and that wasn't a feeling he liked having while sitting behind the controls of a Huey.

Even over the snapping of wood and twisting groan of metal, he could hear men screaming.

It took everything in him not grab the controls and try to correct what was happening. Any further adjustments to the sticks might only make matters worse. Even Getz seemed to have enough sense not to do that, or he was too petrified to remember it was even an option.

And then, just as quickly as the crash began, it came to an end.

Murdock blinked, unsure if he trusted that the chaos was over. Beside him, Getz stirred, wide-eyed and gasping for air.

They were still a good fifty feet up off the ground, with their chopper nose pointed down, supported by the strong arms of the trees. For a moment they sat staring out the broken Plexiglas window at the jungle floor below, before Murdock broke out in laughter.

Getz gave him another hard, disbelieving stare as Murdock reached forward and gently patted the Huey's dash.

"_But it's undeniably true…I'm irresponsibly mad for you…"_

"You're fucking crazy…" Getz muttered, as he toyed with his harness. "_Fucking_ _crazy_…"

Murdock grinned and would've answered if BA's rage-filled voice hadn't stopped him.

"I'm gonna kill that fool!"


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

He hated this time in a mission—the wait just before they reached the LZ.

Seated on the left-side rear bench, near the cargo door, BA drew in a deep, slow breath, preparing for the landing, for the instant his feet would strike soil again. Good Lord, he wanted to be there, standing on something solid again and not in a rickety pile of flying death. It wasn't until pain flared from the bite of this grip on his M-16 that he realized tremors were starting in his arms.

_Damn. _

Murdock knew how to fly, BA couldn't deny that, _but _the man was bat-shit crazy too. He ran formations so tight that BA usually had a pucker factor of ten. If they kept up like this, his asshole would just seal itself over pretty soon.

Not even the two UH-1 Cobras following along as escorts bought BA much peace of mind. He already knew the Cobras couldn't do a thing for them if the Slick went down in the thick-ass jungle below.

The quiver in his arms grew, his legs beginning to twitch as well.

_Shit, shit..._

BA Baracus wasn't afraid of _nothing_. This wasn't gonna get the better of him. He flexed his muscles, forcing them into solid masses, willing away the shakes with pure strength. It worked a little—enough to hide his fear. He hoped.

He glanced at the bench across from his. Head down, eyes fixed on a chart, Hannibal's attention was elsewhere. Good, the last thing BA needed was the colonel questioning his nerves. It would be a shame to have to knock the man senseless just to prove himself.

Turning back to the open door, he gazed down at the LZ as the chopper hovered over the dense jungle. Didn't matter how quiet it looked from the sky, the place was a gamble—every LZ was.

The chopper dipped, swinging around as it eased downward. Trees swayed in the rotor wash, leaves flapping a grim welcome. Still a good twenty feet from the ground, the rapid _ting-ting-ting_of gunfire started to ricochet off the Slick.

BA held his breath, listening to the strikes. They'd been dropped into plenty of hot LZs before. The key to knowing when to touch down and when to haul ass was tricky. Just like making popcorn, it depended on the number of and how rapid the pops were.

Amid the chaos, the Cobras were returning fire, but the LZ was too small for them to do much beside shoot blindly into the jungle. Hell, they were practically shooting at the Slick half the time.

Olsen's M-60 was alive, spraying the ground with bullets as well. From the other gunner's position, it sounded like Hayes was doing the same. Even BA emptied a few rounds downward, though his M-16 was far less effective than the bigger guns.

He glanced back just in time to see Hannibal grab a headset and slip it on. "MURDOCK, GET US OUT OF HERE, NOW."

The Slick streaked skyward, away from the danger _and _away from the relief of being on solid earth. A twist of heartache and relief flooded BA—one that grew as he noticed the undeniable, sickening wobble in the chopper's flight. Murdock knew how to keep his ride smooth, and he knew BA would pound the livin' shit out of him if he ever played around, tried messin' with them all.

"HEY," BA hollered at Olsen, straining to be heard over the whirl of the chopper and through the crew chief's helmet. "WHAT'S GOING ON?"

From his perch in the left gunner's pocket, Olsen peered back into the chopper, pointed at his ears and shook his head, but that glint of worry BA caught in the man's eyes was all the answer he needed. Well, that and the fact that, at that precise moment, the engine went dead.

An icy cut of disbelief and panic swelled in BA's chest. His heart pounding, aching as it pumped, he leaned toward the door gunner as far as his harness would allow. "MAN, YOU TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON RIGHT NOW OR ELSE..." He didn't need to finish the threat; the tone of his voice did that for him.

Olsen stared wide-eyed at BA for a split second before radioing up to the cockpit. Whatever he said, BA couldn't hear, but he watched the man's face pale a little more as he listened to the report back.

The crew chief turned to BA, words pouring out a little too quickly. "Fuel line was hit. We're going down. Murdock's doing an autorotation now."

"WHAT?" _Hell no! _BA's hands were moving before he could rationalize what he was doing.

He pawed at his harness, fumbling with the clips, unsure of what his plan was. All he knew was that he had to do _something_. There was no way he was going down with the chopper. Panic numbed his fingers, slowing his escape, and just when he gained a little control, another set of hands darted over to him, halting his progress.

He glanced up to find Face's wild, blue eyes, full of fear and maybe a hint of frustration, staring back at him.

"What you doing, fool? We goin' down…I gotta get outta here…gotta…" Damn, he couldn't even get the words out through his panted breaths. Didn't matter, Faceman would know to leave him alone, that nothing was gonna stop him.

"God-damn-it, BA…" Face grunted, still struggling. "You're going to get yourself killed."

Peck was actually kinda strong for a skinny little shit. BA paused, halting the tussle just long enough to chance a glance at the others. Arms and legs drawn close, heads tucked, everyone was bracing themselves, readying for the impact.

_What the…? _

The fear was uncontrollable now as BA started pulling at his harness again, determined to fling himself toward the door the moment he was free. Every other bastard on the chopper could go down with it if they wanted but not him. He wasn't gonna die in no crash. All he had to do was shake Faceman off. No problem…

He clenched his fist, making a display of drawing it back, giving Face as much warning as he could. A vague, far-away hope seeded somewhere inside of him that the man would come to his senses and just let him go, but that look in those eyes told him otherwise. Nothing short of being knocked unconscious was going to make Face give in.

BA tightened his biceps, preparing to launch his fist toward Peck, when the first slap of branches struck the chopper's belly.

_Shit. _BA's training kicked in and he tucked down as tight as he could at the last possible second.

Time became a blur, running fast and slow in rapid succession. At one point, BA became aware of his own hoarse voice calling out, but he didn't care. Harness straps digging into his flesh as the Huey pitched back and forth, he was tossed around like a rag doll. The whirl of blades gave way to thunderous claps of snapping metal as the chopper plunged further into the canopy.

Any sense of direction was lost, up and down, left and right. All that could be seen out the doors and windows was the streaked green and brown of foliage rushing by.

And then, with one last violent lurch, it was over.

The chopper was wedged in the trees, nose pointed downward, a good fifty feet off the ground. BA sat, taking in the pungent odor of exhaust and jet fuel, listening to the creaking of the settling Huey, unsure if he trusted that it was all over.

Face ran a shaky hand through his short, blond hair, soft curses coming in broken mumbles as he stared at his feet. Finally, he looked up. His gaze set on BA. "_You_ were going to punch _me_?"

Mouth dry, BA tried to wet his lips. "Yeah, man...I was."

Murdock's voice, thick with song, emanating from the cockpit filled the chopper. "_But it's undeniably true….I'm irresponsibly mad for you…"_

It took a moment for BA to register the insanity of what he'd just heard from the pilot—the man who'd just crashed their chopper. _We going down and the crazyman is singing Sinatra?_

"I'm gonna kill that fool!"

Face didn't move to stop BA this time as he quickly stripped himself of his harness. Only gravity saved the pilot's life. Released from the one thing holding him in place, BA quickly found himself splayed out on top of Dom and Hannibal directly behind the co-pilot's seat. The chopper gave a groan at the sudden shift in weight.

BA fumbled for a moment, pulling himself off the other two men. "Crazy man crashed us! Crazy man singing his fool-ass..."

"God-damn it, BA." Hannibal snapped, his steely gaze unfazed by what they'd all just weathered. "Stow it, _Sergeant_. AND…I don't want to see anyone else unbuckling their harnesses until they've braced themselves first. We don't need to be shaking this bucket of bolts loose any time soon."

"Aw, Hannibal," Murdock poked his head out of the cockpit. "This here little bucket o' bolts just saved our lives. So, let's show the gal a little bit o' respect." The joviality in the voice suddenly faded away. "Radioed in our coordinates. The Cobras can't see or do anything for us down here...and no Slick can land here or at that LZ we were just at. We've been directed to a laager site about ten klicks from here."

BA scowled at the pilot. No surprise there.

Hannibal nodded. "Understood. Any injuries up front, Captain?"

"Nothing serious. Just a few bumps and bruises," Murdock replied, his dark, worried gaze drifting to the rest of the team. "How about back here?"

Hannibal was pulling himself from his seat, eyeing his men. "Callaghan, Ray?"

Callaghan, seated beside Ray, spoke up first. "I'm fine. Ray's got broken fingers on the right hand, maybe a fractured wrist, but that's all."

Hannibal gave another nod, a tight frown pulling at his lips. "Olsen?"

The crew chief carefully shifted out of his pocket on the left side of the bird, managing to perch precariously beside the colonel. "Fine."

"Face, BA?"

"We're fine," BA grunted after getting a thumb's up from Face.

"Dom, Hayes?"

"Just dandy," Dom answered, head cradled in his hands. "For fallin' out of the fuckin' sky." He peered up, a lopsided smile on his face. "Thanks for asking."

"Hayes?" All eyes went to the other door gunner's position, to the mess of tangled, broken branches filtering in through the cargo door. Only silence followed.

Slowly, Dom undid his harness and rose, pulling himself to the right side of the bird. A few branches snapped as he eased out into the foliage and disappeared from sight.

"Aw, _s_hit..." Dom stumbled back through the limbs, settling into his seat. "Hayes is a friggin' shish kabob. Trees skewered him right through the middle. Blood and guts everywhere, it's a fuckin' mess."

"You sure he's dead?" Callaghan asked.

"Yeah. I'm sure. I've got his intestines all over my boots. If the bastard's not dead then he owes me a new pair of shoes..." Dom's voice wavered, crackling and unsteady. BA had never seen the man so shaken.

"_Shit." _That lone hissed word from Murdock was the only spoken response to the news.

Averted eyes and silence were all everyone else had to offer. BA shrugged. All he knew about the man was that he actually liked what was served in the mess hall and he had a strong love of skiing. Plus, he had a wife and three little boys waiting for him back in the San Juan Islands in Washington state.

He'd shown BA a picture of his family once. They were all in a rowboat, sitting low in the water, in a serenely green, pine enclosed bay. The two smallest boys were holding up red rock crabs while the oldest had some kind of spiny lookin' fish dangling from a line. Hayes' wife, a pretty blond thing, looked like she was in the middle of scolding the kids while Hayes, in the background, was frozen in a moment of full bellied laughter.

They looked like a nice family...happy.

"Face, BA." Hannibal's authoritative tone instantaneously had BA at the ready. "Get some lines set. We need to rappel out of here ASAP, before Charlie comes in with a welcome basket while our pants are down." In a flash, his gaze shifted. "Murdock, Getz, make sure nothing vital remains in the chopper that could fall into enemy hands—weapons, radios, etc. You know the drill. Dom, check how much gear we have to hump back to the laager site. Ray, Olsen and Callaghan, keep an eye out for Charlie."

And just like that, they were a smooth, well-oiled piece of machinery again as each man fell into his task. Hannibal had trained them too hard for them to be anything but this.

As he helped Face ready the lines, BA chanced a glance over at the colonel, catching sight of him weaving his way through the branches near the right side cargo door. For a moment he disappeared and then, after a few seconds, he returned holding a set of bloody dogtags.

The man could act stone-cold heartless if he wanted to, but, in that moment, BA could see through it. The way he shifted those tags in his hand, his mind a million miles away—probably thinking of Hayes' family back home—there was no way Smith didn't care, wasn't hurting over this loss. It was yet another reason BA respected the man so much more than all those other fresh-out-of-training, cocky officers out there.

Tucking the dogtags in his shirt pocket, Hannibal looked up, eyes settling on BA. The sergeant almost turned away, not wanting to be caught watching the man's pain, but something about that haunted look in his CO's eyes wouldn't let him.

Slowly, carefully, Hannibal made his way across the chopper.

"Report."

"We can head out any time. Line's down...Sir." BA squirmed after the _'sir.' _It had rolled out in an awkward way, the indecision of saying it colliding with the fact it was already half-formed.

"Good." Hannibal's gaze flickered to BA's uniform and then Face's. "Strip off any signs of rank from your uniforms. I know the standard is to give name, rank and serial number...but..." He paused, staring hard at Peck. "There's no Geneva Convention here, boys."

BA shrugged and complied, ripping away his chevrons. He figured this was more for Peck and Ray's sake than anything else. The Viet Cong weren't too friendly with officers.

"What about Murdock and Getz?" Face's question hung for a moment, unanswered.

It was the low sigh that rolled out of Hannibal that sent a shiver up BA's spine. He already knew the answer. If they were captured, the flyboys were screwed.

"Can't have them running around the jungle in nothing but their drawers and boots, so they'll have to keep their flight suits on. I'll have them strip their ranks off still."

"That won't matter." Face's tone was low, heated. "And _you _know it. They will-"

"Lieutenant, we can argue this, or we can get the hell out of here. Which would you prefer?"

BA shifted, uncomfortably situated between the two men as they stared each other down. "Uh, Colonel? You want us to go down now and secure the ground?"

Not taking his eyes off Face, Hannibal nodded. "Yeah, you _and _Face can head down first."

Face slung his M-16 over his shoulder. "_Fine." _He stepped up to the door, clipping onto the line before Hannibal cleared his throat, causing him to glance back.

"Don't get killed, that's an order. I don't want to lose anyone else today, understood?"

Anger fading, Face grinned. "You know me; I'd _never _disobey a direct order." And, with that, he swung out the door and was gone from sight.

The chopper jostled at Peck's movement but only ever so slightly. It probably wouldn't have swayed much more in a gentle wind, skinny little shit that Face was.

BA leaned out the cargo door, watching Peck shimmy silently toward the ground.

"I mean it, too, BA," Hannibal muttered, coming up beside the sergeant. "We gotta pull this off, get Ray home."

"Yeah, I know." And he did, too. They all owed Ray their lives. He'd saved all their asses at one point or another. "We will."

Taking hold of the rope, BA started easing himself down. This time, the chopper gave more than a little shudder.

From somewhere inside the Huey, Dom growled, "God-damn, big-ass bastard..."

That shouldn't have made BA grin, but it did. There was such a sense of normalcy to the jab. It took a bit of the edge off this whole situation.

It wasn't until he was on the ground, rifle at the ready, catching that look in Face's eyes that the ball of dread in his gut tightened again. Body rigid, eyes wide, Peck stood dead still, staring into the brush. BA froze, too, straining to see what his smaller counterpart was watching.

Overhead, Murdock and Ray were already making their way down the rope. The pilot was surprisingly more graceful than BA would've imagined.

"_Trên đây_!"

_Shit. _BA dropped into a crouch, chancing a quick glance up at Ray and Murdock. There was no way they'd make it down before the Viet Cong zeroed in on them, and even if they did, that still left Hannibal and the others trapped in the chopper.

"_Tôi nhìn thấy chúng!"_

"Face," BA hissed, "what do we do, man?"

For a split second, Face held his rifle up, his expression one of grim determination, but, as the Vietnamese voices in the jungle around them multiplied, the fight seemed to drain out of the lieutenant.

The way BA saw it, they had three choices: fight now and die, run like hell—abandoning the others to the Viet Cong, or surrender and probably die in a POW camp. Whichever way he spun it, he didn't like any of their options.

Murdock dangled precariously twenty feet off the ground, eyes wild. "God-damn it, Face, BA, run! That's an order!" That had probably been the only time BA had ever heard the pilot pull rank on him.

BA tensed, looking again to Face. If they ran, they might be able to break the others free later. It was a long shot but...

Their hesitation had cost them. Thirty or so Viet Cong suddenly filtered out of the jungle, shouting and gesturing at the two men with raised AK-47's. Movement in the brush hinted that there were more men still hidden away.

Slowly, Face lowered his rifle, motioning for BA to do the same.

"Unless you want them to start shooting up the chopper like it's a tin can in a redneck's backyard, I suggest you drop your rifle," Face whispered. "Otherwise, we're all toast."

_Surrender? _BA hadn't thought the word was in the team's vocabulary. It was something that happened to other people, not Hannibal, not his men.

BA slowly lowered his gun, the Viet Cong shouting the entire time. Their faces contorted with their screams, with their anger, hatred and fear. He could feel every slow pulse of his heart as his fingers began to unravel from his M-16. As soon as the rifle hit the floor, a swarm of Vietnamese men were pushing him down, pinning him in place. He could have thrown them off, fought back. Hell, he might've even taken a few of them down before they put a bullet in his head, but, staring back at Face as the man lay beneath his own captors, his wrists already being tied, BA knew he had to play along. Eventually, their time would come.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_December 18, 1969_

Hands bound behind his back, thoughts clouded by exhaustion, Murdock watched his feet shuffle over the uneven terrain beneath him. _Right foot, left foot, right foot..._

The brief tug on the rope around his neck made him aware that someone had stumbled again, but he didn't dare look back. Eyes forward—that kept the blows from coming. Quiet, too. No murmurs or whispers. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, repeatedly.

With a sharp jerk, the loop of coarse rope tightened around his neck and he stopped, not pulling against the strain but not taking a step back either. Someone behind him had fallen. The rope, tied with slipknots from one POW neck to the next, had undoubtedly gone taunt because of that.

Murdock swallowed hard, the stone of saliva barely, painfully pushing down his throat. It probably hadn't helped loosen the rope any, but he had to do something to make the pressure ease. He eyed the hunched figure ahead of him. Even Hannibal didn't chance a glance back.

Closing his eyes, straining for breath, Murdock had to wonder who'd fallen this time?_ Face? BA? Callaghan? _He could hear the guards shouting, their snippets of Vietnamese broken by the occasional dull _thud _of a rifle butt striking flesh.

They hadn't tried to run. He knew that. After Getz's attempt, none of them would try that again.

_Getz..._

Murdock opened his eyes, staring up at the patches of blue sky peeping through the clouds. He should've looked out for the kid better. How the hell he could've done that, he hadn't a clue, but somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that Getz's death was his fault.

He tried not to picture it—not again, but the memory came like a storm on the ocean—unbidden and full of fury. The sheen of sweat already coating his skin turned icy in the jungle heat, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as he fought to veer his thoughts somewhere else, anywhere else.

He didn't want to remember the shouting, the way the rope pulled until he couldn't find his breath, or how he sank to his knees, watching as the guards screamed and beat the whimpering figure curled up some ten feet from the line of prisoners. That's as far as Getz made it before the slipknots tightened, before he was yanked to the ground.

Murdock was panting for breath now, trying to drive away the image of Getz twitching and wiggling on the ground. The guards had loosened the loops on everyone's neck save for Getz's. His they tightened.

A slow strangulation, no more than a show for his captors, was how Getz went. Murdock could still hear the guards' laughter, their amused comments as the kid kicked, thrashed and gurgled, his face going from red to deep purple, veins bulging in his forehead. Then, he stilled.

There was no burial. Those who mourned could say nothing. They simply moved on.

As best as Murdock could figure, Getz had died four days ago, one day after they'd been captured. Though, estimating time, even something as simple as keeping track of days, had become a challenge. The fatigue of marching in the dense jungle and the hours spent blindfolded, riding in trucks bounding down rutted roads made time blur.

Eventually, they'd have to reach a destination of some sort. They couldn't keep this up forever.

His flight suit was no more than tattered rags, hanging from his body. The dank heat of the jungle worked its way into the weave of the cloth, rotting it right off his back. Beneath what little clothing he had left, every muscle, every joint screamed in inflamed agony, begging him to stop, to give up. _How much longer could they go?_

He flinched as a guard came up beside him. Dirty, calloused fingers suddenly, forcefully pressed into Murdock's neck, but he held back his panic, knowing that the man was only there to work the rope loose. No instant of the action was delicate, nothing performed with empathy. The loop was eased just enough so that he could draw adequate amounts of air in, so that he wouldn't pass out when the march began again.

Dark eyes lit with hatred, the guard scowled at him. "_Thằng chó đẻ._" There was a pause, a moment where the man's gaze searched Murdock, waiting to see if he'd respond.

Staring at the ground, Murdock frowned, but made no move. _Comments about his mother?_ Now_ that _was just uncalled for. Still, it would take a lot more than that to bait him, and there was no way in hell he wanted these guys to know he understood Vietnamese.

It was hard not to act under that scrutiny, not to shift as those hate-filled eyes stayed locked onto him far longer than was comfortable. Finally, after one last whispered insult, "_đồ lồn què_," the guard moved on.

Head down, all Murdock could do was listen as the NVA soldier cast the same verbal barbs out at Hannibal. At least they weren't punches...yet.

Another couple of minutes passed before the call to get moving again came out.

His first few steps unsteady, Murdock wobbled like a newborn foal. His movements felt foreign to him, like he was walking on stilts rather than his own legs. Slowly, he fell into a rhythm again, staying up by pure momentum. His concentration fell back to watching his feet. _Right...Left...Right...Left..._

How long had they marched? He didn't know. Time became a haze of stumbled steps and aching muscles. It wasn't until the command to stop was practically shouted in his ear that he looked up.

The jungle had cleared away. There were rice paddies behind them and off to the sides, but Murdock's eyes settled on what stood before them—the tall pillars marking the entrance, the thick wall surrounding the compound, and the countless NVA soldiers with AK-47s at the ready. They'd reached their prison camp.

"_Di chuyển!_"

A second of hesitation earned Murdock a strike to the back of the knees. He barely kept his legs from buckling, kept himself upright. Pain flaring, he staggered forward.

They became a spectacle. Guards paused in their duties to watch them file into the compound. A few jeers and harsh laughs sounded along with some cocky threats. From the corner of his eye, Murdock scanned the crowd of armed men. He didn't miss the hardened animosity in their faces, the fact that any one of them would have gladly slit his throat and watched in glee as he bled out.

A new, cold shiver of fear griped him. He'd been trained for this. The CIA required it, even if he wasn't really a full-blown agent. He'd worked for them enough. But...

He swallowed hard, watching the men staring back at him, fingering their rifles. _Could he really do this? _All the scenarios they had trained him for flooded his thoughts. _Shit...shit...shit..._

Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing, forcing in deep, calming breaths. Everything would be fine. He could do this.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again. He'd been determined not to look back at the guards, not to give them any more satisfaction, show them any more fear, but their shouts had him instinctively glaring back at them.

And then, amid the gawking faces, Murdock saw_ him_. At first, he couldn't puzzle out how he knew the kid, but the suddenness of the bile rising in his throat let him know it wasn't a good thing.

He stared for a long moment at the boy, at that marred face. The puckered scars, probably from a napalm attack, ran across what once must've been smooth skin. As with the others, there was that same deep hatred sparkling in the young man's eyes.

When the realization of who the boy was struck, Murdock stopped dead in his tracks. Even the pull of the rope didn't faze him. Everything became a blur. Someone was shouting, but he couldn't focus on anything save for that boy and that slow, twisted smile that spread across his disfigured face.

_It couldn't have been possible. It shouldn't have been possible._

In a flash of movement, the kid took off, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, disappearing into a building. Murdock kept his eyes on the door, waiting, holding his breath.

Contracting and relaxing, forcing blood through the circulatory system, a heart can be a 350 gram lifeline or a ticking time-bomb. Murdock could feel the muscle pounding fervently in the hollow of his chest, threatening to burst with each pulse.

Memories of the Dong Xoai mission surfaced.

He'd simply been doing the task the Agency had given him. In the depths of the jungle, near a downed chopper, he'd searched Agent Stinson's body and found nothing. That should've been it. That should've been the end of it, but..._that _kid. He watched. He knew. Murdock could see it in his face. The kid knew what he was looking for. The little shit even held the paper up, his trophy from the downed agent, showing it off, knowing that the captain couldn't make his way through the gun-play to get it. Murdock had failed. Secrets were lost and his cover was blown.

And the kid was here...

His mind reeled again at that. _It couldn't be!_

He was shaking now and moving. Christ, how long had he been moving? Another shout in Vietnamese had the line of prisoners stopping. They were further in the compound, surrounded by walls and look-out towers. Murdock blinked, trying to understand as a guard came up the line and unbound their hands, stripped the ropes from their necks.

Each shallow draw of air worked against him, fueling his panic. He tried in vain to still it, to find his calm, but it was no use. He looked to Hannibal and found the colonel was undressing. The others were doing the same.

There was no time to process the situation though before he was doubled over, coughing and sputtering at the sharp pain in his gut. Looming over him, a guard stood, ready to strike again with the butt of his rifle.

"_Quần áo ra!_"

Another slow blink and Murdock stared up at the man.

"Quần áo ra!" Whether it was fueled by frustration or anger, Murdock couldn't tell, but the command was much louder the second time around.

By the time he had his boots off and was back on unsteady feet, stripping off his flight suit, the rest of the prisoners were already standing around in their birthday suits.

All eyes were on him now, waiting, watching his every move. When his drawers finally hit the ground, a rail-thin, little Vietnamese teen ran up and gathered all the shed clothing. Snatching the fatigues and flight suits, he kept his gaze down, away from the line of mainly lily-white asses.

Another Vietnamese youth shuffled down the line, tossing shirts and pants near the feet of each prisoner. It was the basic Vietnam POW garb—a black pajama getup.

Dom, Olsen, Face and Callaghan were all scrambling to dress. Ray and BA were slower, keeping a close eye on the guards as they reached for each garment. Murdock and Hannibal had yet to get their new outfit, as the kid was brought to a sudden halt by a lone shout. Backing away, still holding the two sets of clothing, the kid's gaze was set on the men striding up.

Murdock recognized the NVA General getup right away. The cocky, little bastard had an air about him, too, something that reeked of abused authority. Next to him stood a colonel, the same evil glint of self-satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he stared at the line of prisoners. A third person, someone Murdock hadn't noticed at first, appeared behind the two men. It was that kid, the one from Dong Xoai, the one person who could turn his life to absolute shit.

He caught only a snippet of the conversation between the kid and the General as they drew near, and he didn't like what he heard. One last motion, the boy pointing a bent finger at Murdock, confirmed his worst fear. They knew.

With one wave of dismissal, the General had the kid sprinting away. He didn't even bother to turn and watch him go. He must've been pretty damn used to people obeying his every command. A tight smile pulled at his lips as he made his way down the line of prisoners, carefully eyeing each man. The grin widened as he came to Hannibal and Murdock still standing there stark naked.

"You..." The General flashed his teeth, opening his mouth a bit too wide to form words in a language not native to his tongue. "...need clothes still, yes?"

Murdock kept quiet, unsure if the General was addressing him or Hannibal. He hoped to god that Hannibal would answer, that he'd take the reins on this one.

Standing buck ass naked in front of the enemy, Hannibal was grinning like he had just found a box of Cuban cigars. Giving a little shrug to complete his total disrespect for the man in front of him, Hannibal offered an off-handed, "Well, I had been thinking about working on my full-body tan."

The General's eyes flicked from Hannibal to Murdock. The pilot could see the calculations going on in the man's head. He had to know what kind of prize he'd gotten.

"I am General Chow." There was a pause, a moment where the General seemed to be waiting for the men to acknowledge him and his reputation.

"Nice to meet you, Chow. Great place you have here." Hannibal glanced around the camp. It looked like a casual enough action, but Murdock knew the man better. "Cells, mud, inbred guards. All the comforts of home. Did you decorate it yourself or hire someone? If you contracted the work out, I think you got robbed."

Chow's smile dipped ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed on Hannibal, who grinned wider, and then, something completely unexpected happened. Chow laughed.

Hannibal joined in with a deep, gruff laugh that reminded Murdock of a barking seal. "Well, look at that, guys, we got the _funny _General. Perfect."

"You-" Chow beamed. "-are good with the jokes. I see that now." His gaze shifted to Murdock. "And what about_ you_?"

Murdock managed to unclench his jaw but couldn't force his voice to obey him.

_Shit. _All those times he kept running at the mouth, the guys yelling and groaning for him to shut up, and this was the one time he couldn't get a word out?

"He's not nearly as witty or charming as me. Sorry to disappoint you there, Chow. He's the shy type."

"Shy?" Chow shifted closer to Murdock. "Or is he just a man with secrets, maybe?"

For as cool as Hannibal was being, Murdock was the exact opposite. He was too exposed. He could feel it, with the way his chest rose and fell with each shallow, frantic breath. Hell, at this point he was sure everyone could see the way his heart was racing in his chest.

"Yeah, shy. As in timid, bashful, unsure around others," Hannibal offered helpfully. "You know, I don't think that Berlitz course in English you took is paying off."

Chow just smiled coolly at him, eyes dancing between the two of them. "You are a funny man." Somehow a threat seemed to enter that smile. "Hopefully, your friend here thinks you are funny, too."

"Sure." Hannibal smiled like he was sitting on top of the world and not naked in a blood and mud filled hell-hole. "Everybody knows I'm funny. It's just a fact. Not as funny as you, of course, but then you set the bar high. The whole 'look at me, I'm a big bad scary General' routine is pretty damn hilarious."

Chow took a controlled step forward, hands still clasped behind his back as he smiled. "And what is your name, American?"

Hannibal's grin took on a wicked edge. "You're probably not gonna believe this one, but it's John Smith."

"We will see." With that Chow turned his attention to Murdock. "And you?"

Murdock's mouth was dry. It took a long minute for him to dredge up enough saliva to get his tongue working again. But, damn it, if he was gonna do this, he was gonna speak up with something other than fear ringing in his voice. Staring straight back at the General, he answered, "H.M. Murdock."

"I must say," Hannibal chimed in, "that I'm a bit disappointed in you, Chow." He paused, waiting as the General gave him his full attention. "You missed your cue after I said _my _name. You were supposed to call me a liar and then demand my serial number. Didn't you get some sort of pamphlet on what questions to ask?" He shook his head sadly. "Sloppy work."

Chow just smiled as Hannibal continued. "You have had your turn." He again turned to Murdock and demanded, "Do you agree that your friend's name is... this... John Smith?"

Not trusting his voice, Murdock nodded. That information had already been given. There was no point in denying it.

Chow nodded slightly. "And what is your serial number?"

Murdock's response was automatic. "482587485."

"And your rank?"

His mouth was open, the words about to tumble out, the trigger to respond ingrained too deeply in him from his training, but Hannibal answered before Murdock could.

"Glad you asked. It's Colonel." He paused to let that sink in. "I'm Colonel John Smith."

Murdock blinked, suddenly aware of what he'd almost done and what Hannibal did to stop him.

"Colonel," Chow said almost politely. "John. Smith. Please... refrain from interrupting or your friend here will suffer the consequences." He smiled again, those teeth like a wolf in sheep's clothing. "You understand, no?"

The Colonel's smile never slipped. "Sure, but just you remember...everything starts and ends with the man in charge."

"Of course, Colonel," Chow said rather dismissively before once again turning his attention to Murdock. That same unwavering calm was wafting off of him. And why not, the man had all the time in the world and all the power. "Your rank."

Slowly, Murdock shook his head. There was little chance this was gonna end well, but he had to at least try and hold out.

Chow just smiled in a way that made the hair on the back of Murdock's neck stand up. It was as though he'd just gotten a Christmas present. And just like that the General addressed Hannibal. "Your serial number, Colonel."

"158964135." There wasn't a hint of hesitation or concern.

"Again. Your rank." Chow demanded from Murdock with an expectant raise of his eyebrow and eyes that were much too lively to be reassuring.

Murdock took a deep breath. "482587485."

There was just a fleeting glance from Hannibal, but it said everything. Murdock had done well.

Chow smiled as he pulled out a lighter. "Ah, you do have a sense of humor."

"I don't suppose you're going to offer me a cigar?" Hannibal asked hopefully, his joke a pitiful attempt at breaking the tension.

"I warned you once," Chow said, amusement glistening in his gaze. "_Hold him._"

Chow's guards seemed to know exactly what he wanted, as they both restrained Hannibal and yanked his right arm toward the General. With marked showmanship, Chow flicked the lighter open and took a slow step toward Hannibal.

"Any time you want it to stop..." Chow said, his words clearly meant for Murdock.

As soon as the little flame danced to life, Chow pressed it into Hannibal's forearm. The guards held him tight, making sure the fire burned through flesh.

There was a scream, low, grating and ending with a rasped, "_Murdock, don't..._"

"Captain," Murdock shouted, his eyes locked on Chow. "I'm a captain."

Hannibal's eyes were closed, and Murdock could see the way his chest was working, trying to fight to get the air in, find a way to deal with the pain. When he finally opened his eyes, he kept them on Chow, ignoring Murdock.

The General smiled, pulling the flame away and flicking the lighter closed as he took a step back and looked at them both. "That's _very_ good." He glanced over to his colonel, the man who had stood by so silently watching the show. "That concludes our business for the day. Please, give these two clothes and find some rooms for all our new friends." And with that he spun on his heels and strolled away.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_December 25, 1969_

It'd been days since the guards took Murdock—five days, in fact, that Hannibal was left worrying, his hope of seeing the pilot alive again gradually waning. After all, a man could only survive so much.

With a heavy sigh, the colonel leaned back, resting his head against the cool cell wall. A quick, grim calculation had his internal calendar updated. Taking into account that they'd been at the Son Tay prison camp a little over a week, he figured it had to be about Christmas.

And, as an early present, Chow had Hannibal's unit separated the day they arrived. That'd been a blow—one he'd known was coming, but that didn't make it any harder to swallow. It wasn't necessarily that he _wanted _to see his men as they suffered, but he sure as hell didn't like not having direct daily contact with them. It made him twitchy—the constant not knowing.

At least Murdock and Dom were still with him. They'd been crowded into a five by fifteen foot cell already occupied by three other prisoners. It was cozy, to say the least. Fortunately, someone had the foresight to keep it from being too overly crowded by simply not supplying the room with any form of furniture. That was pretty damn thoughtful.

Hannibal had managed to find out that Face, BA and Callaghan were together in another cell, with new roommates of their own. Plus, Ray, along with Murdock's crew chief, Olsen, was in yet another cell. They were too spread out. Escape was going to be impossible—at least, an escape involving all of them.

_Shit_.

He hated himself for having that thought, but, all the same, he couldn't avoid it either. In the end, he'd have to make some damn hard decisions and he sure as hell wasn't looking forward to that.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, scarcely tasting the stench of human waste any longer, though he knew the air was thick with it. The murky, green soup served by the guards, on the rare occasions they did actually feed their prisoners, was made solely of a plant known to the Vietnamese as Rau Ma. Any nourishment had been welcomed, but the liquidy meal was not sitting well in the POWs' guts—which was undoubtedly caused by the fact that the plant was harvested from the sewage choked ditches surrounding the camp.

He lifted his head and scowled over at the shit bucket in the corner—currently occupied by one of Henderson's men. Eventually, a guard would come take the bucket away and dump it outside in the same ditch they harvested the Rau Ma from. _Damn._ He really wished he hadn't thought that over. Now the soup was going to be even harder to force down.

As the faint scrapping of footsteps sounded outside their cell, Hannibal shifted, straining to hear anything further. He instinctively glanced around, seeing if anyone else had heard the noise.

Every POW in the room was staring expectantly at the door, waiting for Murdock's reappearance, or, perhaps, for their own turn to be hauled away. Collectively, they held their breath, the only sound that of Henderson's man—who continued to shit. Hannibal doubted the poor guy could stop even if he wanted to. The threat of dehydration was starting to become a dire issue for all of them.

The footsteps outside the door sounded again, moving away, and the tension in the cell eased. While they all were troubled over the easygoing pilot's absence, they were undoubtedly worried more about what _their _next interrogation would bring. Even Hannibal felt that cold fear pull at him each time the door opened.

He stared wearily at his dirty, bare feet and the blistered wounds around his ankles where shackles had rubbed his skin raw. Why did he even still expect to see the pilot again? By all rights, Murdock should be dead or wishing he was. The man didn't have the training to last in these conditions. He wouldn't know how to handle himself.

Five days…Hannibal mulled over the possibilities of what could happen in that time, a shiver running through him as he thought of his own experience at the hands of the NVA guards.

For him, the cruelness lay in the simplicity of the torture. Forced to hold his arms straight out at his sides, essentially forming a 't' with his body, Hannibal had been made to kneel on hard peas for nearly forty-eight hours. Shifting his knees off of the peas brought a beating. Lowering his arms brought a beating. Talking earned him a beating. Pissing himself had apparently been an approved action though—no beatings for that. So, in the end, he held the position, seemingly torturing himself as his arms burned and knees sparked with pain. All the while, the guards baited him to sign confessions of his government's wrongdoings, telling him the pain would end once he did so. He refused. This was, of course, only the warm up. With his rank, worse was yet to come.

His only saving grace had been the sudden influx of prisoners the camp was receiving. After two days, they shuffled him out of the _quiz shack_, as the guards liked to call it, and brought in a fresh, wide-eyed newbie.

Hannibal had kept his head down as he was dragged from the shack, not wanting to look up into the eyes of the lad about to endure the hours of torment to come.

The next day, the guards took Murdock.

"Hey, Henderson," Hannibal whispered, annoyance flaring as the captain didn't answer right away. "HEY!"

Henderson turned, scowling. "Shit, keep it down. You want the guards to come back?"

No, he really didn't, and while he felt like snapping back at the burly, middle-aged chopper pilot, the guy had a point. Damn him. As much as Hannibal wanted to pull rank, this wasn't the time or place to do so. Henderson knew what he was talking about. Already a year-long veteran of these camps, the captain had been at Hanoi, Skidrow and Bao Cao before ending up at Son Tay.

Hannibal let out a tired sigh before answering. "I want to get a message to my men."

"So? I taught you the code. Do it yourself."

Hannibal shrugged. It was obvious that Henderson and his men weren't too keen on taking orders from a colonel still green to the POW life. So, until Hannibal could prove himself, he'd have to handle these men _very_ tactfully.

"You're quicker," he replied, curious to see how the captain reacted.

Henderson, in turn, seemed to warm to the fact Hannibal hadn't resorted to giving out orders and gave a soft chuckle. Slowly, he got to his feet. "Aw, hell, it's not like I have anything better to be doin'. Whatcha want to say?"

"Just want to check up on them, make sure they know I'm still here."

"And that your pilot is still gone?" Henderson asked, raising a brow at Hannibal's nod. "Ok, you're the boss." The captain motioned at one of his men and the wiry soldier, Sergeant Fellows, was instantly on the floor, his face pressed up to the crack under their cell door as he watched for guards in the hall.

Henderson crouched down, taking position next to a section of wall speckled with white strikes in the stone. He plucked a single small rock from the floor and began tapping on a stone block. Instantly, the silence ceased as a flurry of taps started sounding throughout the building. The prisoners had learned that if they all began tapping it was harder for the NVA guards to track down the direction of the sound—though it also made concentration on the actual message quite difficult as well, but it was better than being discovered.

Minutes rolled by before any answer came. Ear pressed to the wall, eyes closed, Henderson carefully deciphered the communication before sitting back, his tired gaze settling on Hannibal.

"Brenner and Callaghan are fine. Baracus just took one hell of a beating during his last questioning and your man Peck is sick as a dog from the soup." Henderson sighed as he stood. "But at least they're all alive for now. No one has seen Murdock."

"Guards!" Sergeant Fellows hissed, drawing himself back from the door.

Henderson was quick to drop back into his regular seat, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Just like that, he so readily, so easily assumed a position that suggested his stiff, weak body hadn't moved in days. Hannibal was impressed.

The shuffle of movement outside their cell came to a halt, and the colonel flinched at the sudden, sharp Vietnamese voice that sounded.

"Phòng này!"

The door swung open, forcing Hannibal to lower his gaze and raise his arms to shield his eyes from the flood of light filtering in from the hall. Only when he felt someone trod clumsily across his unprotected feet did he glance up.

It was Murdock.

The pilot was pale, slightly leaner than before, but he still walked under his own strength—which was far more than most of them were able to do after coming back from the quiz shack. Murdock's gait was off though. His long, lean strides were clipped painfully short under his lanky, hunched frame. He seemed to try to straighten himself but to no avail. It was if someone had tightened all the skin on his body, forcing him to remain bent nearly in half.

As the door slammed shut, Murdock pressed a shoulder to the wall beside Hannibal, giving only a brief, quiet gasp, before sliding down to sit beside his CO. The movement had been awkward, even with taking his odd stance into account, though Hannibal hadn't quite figured out why.

"How're you doing, Captain?" Hannibal kept his voice low, in case the guards were still nearby.

The returning smile from the pale, bent pilot was unexpected and forced. As cracked, dry lips pulled over teeth too white compared to his filthy skin, his raspy voice croaked out, "Just dandy, sir. The mattress was a little bit lumpy, but they more than made up for that with their excellent service."

Murdock closed his eyes, taking in measured, controlled breaths.

Hannibal watched him for a moment, knowing that the man was exhausted, that it was too soon to badger him for information, to search him for wounds, but the colonel wasn't one to sit idly by while one of his men suffered, either. He tried his question again with a more direct tone. "You need _anything_?"

The captain's smile softened a bit, but his eyes remained closed.

The silence between them stretched long enough that Hannibal began to wonder what the pilot was doing. Gathering strength? Forgetting what happened? Maybe just trying to figure out how deal with this little slice of hell they were all in?

Finally, Murdock's hoarse voice sounded. "If you could get the 101st Airborne, 23rd Infantry Division to show up here, that would be real nice." There wasn't anger or bitterness in that, even though he had plenty of reason for both. It was more like the thought amused him.

Hannibal let out a soft chuckle. Maybe the captain was made of sterner stuff than he'd figured. Still, as he glanced around the room, a new concern came to mind. Even with the admiration all the men had for Murdock, Hannibal didn't miss those questioning glances, those suspicious eyes studying the pilot. No one spent five days out and simply walked back in—no one, unless they'd caved…and hard.

Murdock would have to admit to it. No one would blame him for it. Many would cave, eventually, but, later, as they were returned to the cell, they were expected to give an admission that they had given in. It was part of the prisoners' unspoken code and every one of them abided by it.

The colonel smiled sadly at his hunched pilot. "I'll get right on that, Captain."

The response was quiet, tired and yet playful. "Could you get them to bring a pizza, too?"

"Hey," Henderson cut in, before Hannibal had a chance to reply. "What were they asking about? Anything new, so I can get the word out to the others?" The burly man's face was strained with business-like demand. This prison, these men were under his protection and he'd do whatever was needed to provide them with any sort of upper hand to use against the guards.

Murdock's eyes cracked open, and, for a second, there was a flash of something in his look, something Hannibal knew too well, something that was ultimately Hannibal's fault—pain.

Hiding the look, Murdock's glance darted to Henderson. "They wanted me to sign papers about my evil Uncle Sam." He paused, seemingly trying to catch his breath without actually moving his torso—like it hurt too much to do so.

Something had been off about Murdock's answer. Hannibal's internal bullshit meter was flashing red, but there was no way he'd call the pilot on it, not here. Henderson also seemed to be mulling over the answer, but the big man remained, thankfully, quiet.

"So, pretty much just the same old routine, then?" Hannibal turned his attention to Henderson, hoping the man would take the hint to lay off. "Sounds pretty straightforward, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Henderson agreed, "straightforward…" The glint in the man's eyes told Hannibal that this wasn't over. Eventually, they'd pick this up again and find out what really happened, but, for the moment, Henderson would let the matter drop.

"Any word about the others?" Real concern seeped into Murdock's voice, past the exhaustion and pain and god knows what all else was going through his head.

Hannibal spoke up first, making sure he did so before Henderson had the chance. "They're fine, Captain, a little rough around the edges, but fine." Hell, he wasn't sure if even believed that himself.

"Uh…" Murdock motioned to the figure slumped over on the other side of the colonel. "How come Dom looks like he's saddle sore?"

"Well," Dom groaned, "probably because I've been pissing razors since the day after those bastards took you. Oh yeah..." He sat up and shot an ugly, lopsided grin at Murdock. "...and welcome back."

Murdock's eyes widened, filled with surprise and confusion. "Day after they took me? How long have I been gone?"

Shit… Hannibal knew it was a bad sign if the man didn't even know how many days he'd been gone—meant he'd been locked up someplace dark for a lot of the time.

"Five days," Dom answered. "Four of which I've been pissing hot lead...not that I think that's worse than what you've been through or anything, but..." Dom trailed off, his expression going blank before he let out a gruff laugh. "Christ, I can't believe I'm friggin' complaining to you about the clap after you just got back. Aren't I an asshole, or what?"

Murdock's Adams apple bobbed up and down as if he were trying to swallow down the information of how long he'd been gone. Brief panic welled in his eyes before he regained his composure.

"The Clap?" The pilot sighed. "Didn't you pay attention to MS? No love without a glove." He shook his head and then grimaced in pain. "Too bad, Sergeant. If you was an officer, you would only have a Urinary Tract Infection."

Dom laughed. "I knew there was some kind of added benefit to being an officer. Should've been more careful in Saigon." He quieted, leaning back away from the conversation. His voice was muffled, sleepy, as he spoke again. "What the hell did they do with you for five days?"

_God-damn-it, Dom_. Hannibal's teeth ached as he clenched his jaw. The one subject they'd been trying to veer from and he had to bring it up?

The tired smile returned as Murdock spoke. "Asked me to reconsider my political and moral affiliations—sort of like Jehovah Witnesses…but shorter…and with guns."

Dom gave another low chuckle.

The sudden, soft patter of footsteps outside their cell again made all the men freeze in place. Hannibal cast a worried glance at Murdock, taking in the fresh sheen of worry and fear settling over the man's face. Would they take him away again so soon? Maybe.

As the door opened, Hannibal could feel the violent throbbing of his heart inside his chest. Who would they take? Would it be him this time? Oh god, did he have the energy to take another couple days of torture just yet?

And then a tray filled with small wooden bowls slid into the room before the door slammed shut.

They all sat for a moment, staring at the tray before it dawned on them—food! And it wasn't just the green Rau Ma sewage soup, either. It was rice!

Hannibal grinned over at Murdock. "It's not as good as pizza, but I think this might do for now."

Murdock looked like a starving cat who'd stumbled into a pen full of flightless birds. It was a wild, feral hunger. Had the guards bothered to feed him in those five days? Eyes fixed on the rice, the pilot shifted slightly forward, as if he was going to reach for a bowl, but, without warning, he froze and turned a shade of pale not found in nature.

A strange little coughed, sharp breath escaped and then he was leaning back against the wall, sweating heavily. Eyelids screwed tight, the man barley managed to force out a few raspy words. "Maybe I'd better not. Swimsuit season is just around the corner..."

Sergeant Fellows jumped up, gathering the bowls before he started to hand them out. The soldier paused only a moment, staring at Murdock before he handed two bowls to Hannibal.

"One for your man," Fellows muttered before moving on.

Confused, the colonel took both bowls. His own stomach gurgled angrily as he stared down at the food.

"Your rice, Captain," Hannibal said, turning and holding one bowl out, watching that longing, that need in Murdock's face as he stared at the mess of maggots and rice.

When it became agonizingly clear the pilot wasn't going to reach out for the offering, Hannibal felt his patience slip. He, like everyone else, just wanted to set into his food. Distractions were not welcome.

"I'm not gonna stand here all day." The colonel tried to keep the growl from his voice, but he could tell he didn't entirely succeed.

Sitting forward a little, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on the food, Murdock still said nothing. The pilot's breath was shallow, pained with want.

"Go on..." Hannibal was done coddling the man, if he wanted the bowl then he'd better damn well take it.

Slowly, as if someone else was at the controls, Murdock turned his head and stared up at Hannibal. The colonel wasn't sure what he expected to see, but the stark, haunted pain and fear radiating out of the man wasn't it. That hit Hannibal with the force of a sledge hammer.

But hunger had driven Hannibal to his breaking point as well. His clouded mind, refocused on the food, couldn't deal with deciphering the situation.

"God-damn-it, Murdock, I know you're hungry. Just take the food. We don't need any martyrs here, alright?" Hannibal spat, the food in his hands was too tempting to hold on to any longer.

Murdock's head dropped, so that he was whispering his confession to the dirt floor. "I can't." That forced, tight, weary smile was back. "My arms are having a little disagreement with my brain. I've threatened them with a court martial, or listening to BA trying out Swiss yodeling, but they're being stubborn. Between the two of us, I suspect they're just trying to register their displeasure with the decor..."

Hannibal blinked, registering the sad humor, but still uncertain of its meaning.

"Damn it." Henderson's sudden, harsh tone made Hannibal flinch. "Either you're being an asshole, Colonel, or you don't know what the hell is going on. Either way, just give the bowl to Fellows and let him take care of it. He'll feed your man."

Murdock's babbling faded off. He turned his head away, not wanting anyone to see the shame, but Hannibal had.

_He'll feed your man?_ Hannibal felt warmth flushing in his face. What had he missed?

"What'd they do?" The question was stupid, simple, and Hannibal regretted it the moment it left his lips, but all the same, he had to know.

"Ropes," Sergeant Fellows answered, taking the bowl back from Hannibal. "They tie a prisoner's wrists together behind his back, and then do the same at the elbows, pulling tight so that the elbows touch. Hurts like a son of a bitch..." He paused, staring vacantly down at the bowl in his hands. "Not as much as what comes later, though. The guards loop another rope around the crook of the elbows and pull upward, dislocating both shoulders and tearing everything else to hell. It's...it's..." He trailed off again, before glancing up at Hannibal. "Sir, you don't know what it's like 'til they've done it to you, but it ain't pretty. Most guys can't use their arms a lick after a session with the ropes. He'll get some feeling back later if the damage isn't too bad." His gaze turned to Murdock. "You ready for some grub now?"

It was obvious Murdock wanted to say no. He hadn't even wanted to admit that he couldn't use his arms, so he sure as hell wouldn't want to be fed like a baby. But five days of torture and starvation made pride seem more than pointless. Swallowing hard, Murdock managed a weak nod.

Fellows gave no reply, just scooped up a dirty fingerful of rice and held it out, hovering in front of the pilot's face.

Murdock hesitated for a long moment until his gaze slipped out of focus and he opened his mouth, resigned, and leaned forward just enough to take in the filthy fingers, squirming maggots and rice.

Hannibal turned away, shamed that he hadn't helped, shamed that he'd let one of his men down and shamed that one day he'd probably be in the same position as Murdock was now.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five **

_December 27, 1969 _

Already stagnant, humid air became more stifling as the POWs sat in sweat dampened clothes. The mid-day heat clung to them, leaching precious moisture from their bodies. No position was comfortable. Nothing brought relief.

Exhaustion, along with the God-awful, unending heat, weighed Face down. But, he couldn't give in—no matter how badly he wanted to. Currently, the men in his cell looked to him, as he held the burden of highest ranking officer. Letting them down wasn't an option.

How often had he shrugged off that duty in his career? Gained what he could from it? Now the consequences of that responsibility sat so heavily upon his shoulders, almost unbearable in their magnitude.

He'd led patrols before, but that had been different. In the field it was easy to separate the idea of a man—a creature with a heart, a soul and a family somewhere who loved him—from a soldier. Guns at the ready, the men Face commanded served a purpose. They could be used as tools. He could make himself see them as tools. It made the losses hurt a little less.

And back at the base? That was the time to keep busy. Drinking, gambling, chasing woman and cons all helped drowned out the need to reflect, think back on what had happened, who he'd lost.

Here though, in the camp, where they had nothing to keep them busy, were given no mercy of mindless motion, there was nothing to do but think. And the men he was responsible for morphed from soldiers to creatures of wants, needs and hopes. There was no way to distance himself, no drink or woman to dull the reality of what was going on. Whether he wished it or not, he came to know these men better than anyone he'd ever met. They wormed their way into his skin, becoming a part of him. And, it didn't matter if they spewed out their life story—which some did—or simply muttered names of loved ones in their sleep.

He glanced over, once again, at BA, whose great frame hunched pitifully against the wall as he dozed. It was a simple, unavoidable reflex now. Face needed to confirm that his relief over BA's return was well founded—that he was safe.

Baracus had only been gone a day, but, as before, the intensity of his short excursion more than made up for the infrequency he was taken.

After lumbering back into the cell, BA had waved off Callaghan's offer of medical aid with a growl before re-establishing himself in his usual position. That tough facade hid nothing from Face, though. The slow gait and short, wheezed breaths all bore witness to the fact the man was hurting—_badly_.

_If only the beatings would ease a little…_

Face let that thought trail. There was a plain, brutal truth to the treatment. The guards were negating their fear of the burly sergeant with pure, uncompromising violence. No one else could've survived the beatings they dished out. But, BA never complained; he never uttered a word about them.

Even as BA slowly weakened, that spark of dread, of fear, lingered in the guards who came for him. Face could see it in their worried, fleeting glances as they eyed the big man. They knew that, given the opportunity, he still had strength enough to snap any of their necks.

Face shifted uneasily.

Either the guards would break BA or they'd kill him. They wouldn't let him go on as he was. Cowering was _not _something the NVA soldiers liked to do—especially not in their own prison camps.

With a quiet sigh, Face turned his attention to the two men huddled at the rear of the cell.

Sergeants Bulfinch and Jones had been taken captive during a recon two weeks before Face's group, and what little hope they had of survival was blindly thrust at Face. He used his charisma as best he could, easing their fears, but it was exhausting to keep feeding into their dwindling hope. He'd run out of stories. There were no more boastful conquests of nurses or bold cons taken against higher officers to share.

And, the raised morale could only heal so much. The third member of Bulfinch and Jones' party, Sergeant Mendez, was beyond what a few barroom worthy tales could mend. Face shifted his gaze again to take in the last two members of their group.

Callaghan crouched next to the frail, young man. Gently lifting his patient's head, the medic pressed a wooden bowl of murky water to Mendez's mouth. Rivulets ran down the boy's chin, dampening the dark, prison-issued shirt he wore. None of the liquid seemed to be getting passed the chapped and blistered lips.

Defeated, Callaghan pulled the bowl away and stared down at the wisp of a man who he'd worked so feverishly to save. It was hopeless. They all knew it. Strange that knowing it was hopeless only seemed to deepen Callaghan's resolve to fight an insurmountable foe. Face admired him for that, for not giving up, but he knew it was foolish too.

Thoughts of the dying man gave way quickly though as another bout of cramps rocked Face's gut. His abs tightened as he willed away the pain. Sooner or later he'd have to trek over to the shit bucket in the corner again and relieve himself. It was a task he dreaded.

BA's gruff whisper broke the silence. "You awake, Faceman?"

Face blinked, realizing the sergeant was propped up, looking over at him. "Yeah…" He found some control for his voice, hiding away the pain. "I thought you were asleep still." Swallowing hard, he added softly, "Did I wake you?"

"Nah…" BA's voice was its usual low growl, but, from either dehydration or the beatings, there was a new raspy quality to it.

"Uh…good…" The answer came out with a sigh.

BA stared hard at Face, his dark eyes shining in the dim light. "You still sick?" From anyone else it would've sounded like an accusation, but by Baracus' standards, it was almost gentle.

The question startled Face. It was relevant. He just hadn't expected it from BA. He'd prepared himself for fending off Callaghan's next round of questioning, but this he hadn't calculated for.

_Was he still sick? _In truth, he wasn't sure if he even had the strength to make it the few steps across the cell to relieve himself. Not to mention, his only reward for making it over there was to shit liquid flames again.

"Feeling much better. How about you?" Face replied, plastering on a reluctant grin—one he hoped looked far more genuine than it felt.

The big man shook his head. There was a flash, just a hint of white as BA nearly eased into a smile, before it gave way to a soft scowl. "Man, you must be sick. Even your lies is weak."

There was a shuffling as BA carefully edged closer. The only indication that moving hurt was presented in the way the sergeant held himself—stiff and board straight. His whole posture screamed broken ribs.

If he hadn't been so concerned about the man's health, Face might've chuckled at the joke. "You know," he said, eyeballing BA's chest, "you should let one of us look at those ribs."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with my ribs." It was a snarling, whispered denial that would have been more convincing if he wasn't guarding his ribs with his left arm as he said it. BA's deep angry sigh and the glare he cast over at Callaghan made it clear that he felt the subject was closed. And to be sure of it, he used one of Face's tricks—he changed the subject. "Callaghan, we got any water?"

Callaghan stared at his feet for a moment before glancing up. The deadpan, tired glaze drifted away as a small, mischievous smile eased onto his face. "Yeah, but only if I get to look you over first. It's been awhile since you've let me get all handsy. I'm starting to think you don't like me anymore, BA."

"I ain't interested in you feelin' me up, Mick. Save that jive for the nurses."

It took Face a second to figure out that was a joke. With all the snarling and decking superiors, it was easy to forget that BA had his own quaint sense of humor. Despite their shitty circumstances, Face had to smile.

The whisper of a grin faded from the darker man's expression, and his eyes flicked to the ground, like he was embarrassed. "Besides, I don't need no water, Face does." Any trace of humor was lost as BA slipped back behind that hard, stony mask.

Callaghan didn't say anything. He just scooped up the bowl of water and leaned across the cell to hand it over to BA. Face didn't miss the fact that BA maneuvered so that he took the bowl with his left hand, keeping his right arm tucked across his stomach. That was wrong. BA was right handed, but, before Face could mention it, BA was carefully holding the bowl out, offering it to him.

Staring back, too stunned to find his voice, Face had to wonder how this become about him? Sure, Callaghan had been encouraging him to drink more water, but there wasn't much left and they didn't know when the guards would give them more. It had to last. He couldn't drink up their entire supply.

BA's gaze narrowed. "_Drink."_It was a flat statement, an order.

Face stared at the bowl, fully aware that he'd let his grin slide away. "No," the answer came out low but steady. He looked up, locking eyes with BA. "Let Callaghan see those ribs."

BA leaned into Face's personal space, a low growl of frustration rumbling in his throat. It was a move that should've been damn well threatening, but, for some reason, to Face, it wasn't. The sergeant's fierce gaze bore down on him, as if he thought that alone could sway his decision.

BA's voice was a harsh whisper. "You _need this. _If you're sick, they gonna take you and beat you like a rented mule..."

Face stared at BA for a long moment before he turned his attention to the still form on the other side of the cell, the man Callaghan had been feebly trying to help. "I...can't..." He wouldn't, not when there were men in the cell who needed the water more than he did.

BA's gaze flicked over to Mendez, then those bottomless black eyes fixed back on Face. As he used his right arm to grab Face's hand, a sharp, painful intake of air sounded from BA. The movement had cost him dearly, but that hadn't stopped him.

That massive, callused hand all but swallowed up his, but much to Face's surprise, it was a gentle guiding grip that BA used, pulling his hand and putting it around the bowl, making Face hold it up lest they spill the water. Like his grip, BA's voice was controlled and soft. "Mick gonna take care of Mendez, but _you _need this." When Face hesitated BA switched gears, once again back to gruff, his voice rising slightly. "Look, you take this." He pressed the bowl into Face. "I ain't holding it all day. You finish and I'll give it back to Mick. I'll even let him play touchy feely with me." It was a deal, wrapped up in a demand

Face took the bowl. He'd have to negotiate, and he could already tell that BA wasn't going to make it easy. "I'll take _a_ drink," he said, deciding not to make eye contact when he made this new bargain. "And you _will _let Callaghan look you over." Two could play at the demand game.

The low menacing snarl was to be expected, but the quick follow up of "Fine" wasn't. That was too easy.

Face sighed, too tired to root out what BA was up to. He brought the bowl to his lips and took in a sip of the bitter water. It tasted vaguely like the nasty green soup the guards kept bringing them. He grimaced and set the bowl carefully aside. "Callaghan, your turn."

The medic grinned as he scooted closer to BA. "Now, shall I buy you diner first or are you the cheap kind of date?"

"Look all you want, but you ain't touchin' till he's done with _that_," BA replied, pointing a swollen finger at the water. "That's the deal."

"_Wha_t?" Face barely got his words out through clenched teeth. "What's the deal?"

"You drink," BA answered, looking smug despite his scowl. "And I let_ him…" _He paused to nod toward Callaghan. "…_look_, but you didn't' say nothing about touchin'" BA slowly held his arms out, so the medic could have a good, full view of him.

Suddenly, Callaghan lunged, taking hold of BA as he quickly started prodding the man's ribs.

It had been a gamble on Callaghan's part. He'd trusted the large sergeant wouldn't do anything to hurt him, and he'd been right. BA tried to put his hands up to guard himself, but nothing more.

"Hey, get off me man! I'll..." BA's threat was cut off as Callaghan hit something that had the big man gasping and pulling back in pain.

"Aw, big baby…" Callaghan muttered as he continued his exam, moving on from the ribs to the rest of the body.

"Well?" Face asked as the medic finally backed away.

"Broken ribs...at least two of them. Seems to have some pain and swelling in his right arm as well. I don't' know how bad that is though. Maybe a fracture. Broken nose and he's bruised to all hell..." Callaghan turned, heading back toward Mendez. "BA'll live..." With a soft chuckle he added, "probably longer than the rest of us."

"Yeah I'm gonna live longer than you fools." BA paused for a brief rest before he could finish his threat. "If you do that again I'm gonna pound you back into last year, got it?" It would've been more intimidating if BA had been able to peel himself off the wall.

Callaghan laughed and waved a dismissive hand at the sergeant. "Sure, sure, sure…whatever."

"You wait, Callaghan, I'll, grind your scrawny..." BA gave the medic a hard glare. "…lily white, Mick behind into dog food..."

Whatever witty retort that was sure to come from Callaghan was never to be as the quiet sound of boots shuffling down the hall sounded. All eyes went to their cell door.

BA was moving, slow and stiff, using the wall as support, but he was shockingly fast for his size and condition. The sergeant glared at the door as he forced himself to stand straight and ball his hands into fists.

The guards wouldn't be coming for BA, not so soon. They'd take someone else. Face shivered at the thought. He just couldn't, not again, not now. The thought trailed as the footsteps drew near, and he tensed, preparing for the worst. BA wouldn't be able to hold them off, not forever. A cold wave of fear ran through Face, his stomach tightening, threatening to up-heave what little was in it. Then, the guards moved on, only the muted sound of cloth sweeping across the ground hinted that they had already found and seized their next victim.

_Poor bastard..._

BA took a shaky step toward the door, the look in his eyes undeniable. He wanted to act upon his rage, to fight, to save whoever was out there, but whatever turmoil was stirring in the big man subsided, or was forcibly squelched. Even then, for a moment, he stood stock-still glaring at the door.

Realizing the danger had passed, Face relaxed, but the wave of relief didn't last long as sharp pains wracked his gut again. His intestines felt like they were tied in knots, ones he didn't want to work loose just yet. God, he didn't want to have to squat in the corner again for another couple of hours. The discomfort had him doubled over, which he hadn't noticed until, sweat trickling gently down his temple, he glanced up at BA.

The intensity in BA's look would've typically had Face retreating, or smiling, trying to draw BA away from that furious, potent rage, but Face was in no condition to do either, instead, helpless, he just stared. He wanted to think up a plan, something to say, but…

Another stabbing cramp had him grimacing, and then something odd happened. The anger drained from BA's expression as if it had never existed and the big man looked ..._worried?_

BA moved again in that odd wind up soldier gait, until he was kneeling next to Face. "Ya need to move?" The question was spoken so quietly even Face could barely make out the words.

"No..." The answer was out before Face could really think it over, but, for the moment, it was true. He could wait a little longer.

The pain slowly subsided, but he knew that he'd have to meet that urge soon. He sighed and stared across the room at Mendez and Callaghan. He watched for a moment as the medic leaned down close to the sick man, only a few hoarse inflections in his voice were loud enough to break the silence. Face strained, trying to focus on the one-sided conversation. He could almost make out what was being said. It sounded so familiar.

"'K," was all the response BA needed to communicate so much.

From that one word, or, more accurately, that single letter, Face could clearly understand that, when he finally couldn't still his need any longer, BA would be there to help him get across the room.

He should've responded. He should've shown his gratitude, but instead Face continued to watch Callaghan with his patient. He couldn't help but think that in a couple of days' time that shell of a soldier lying on the ground would be him. He shifted, subduing the last of the pain in his midsection, or at least appeasing it enough to gain him a few more minutes.

Attempting to divert any remaining focus off himself, and rein in his straying thoughts, Face wet his lips and then said quietly, "We missed Christmas..."

The span of silence that followed was long, enough so that he was sure he wasn't going to get a reply. Finally, he glanced up at the man standing beside him. It took a moment for Face to figure out that the sergeant was smiling, gaze going distant.

"Mamma always makes a big fuss at Christmas." BA's words were hushed, full of fond remembrance. "Used to let me stay up late watching for Santa and eatin' cookies while she read Christmas stories." He shook his head, just a little. "Never been anything better than Mamma's special Christmas cookies."

It was an intensely private memory, not the type of thing that the sergeant shared. BA's gaze dropped, his smile faded. "Wonder if they told her yet?" By how softly those last words were spoken, Face couldn't be sure BA meant to say them out loud.

_Shit..._

Face slumped back against the wall. He hadn't thought before he'd spoken. Closing his eyes, he let a grim smile pull at his lips. With no family of his own back home it was too easy to forget what heartache the others might be going through. Slowly, he opened his eyes and blinked up at Baracus. "I'm sorry, BA, I didn't mean to...I..." He sighed, trying to sort out what he wanted to say, and, in the end, he went with exactly what he felt was true. "I'm an ass. I shouldn't have said anything."

BA shook his head, his voice still soft. "Nah, it's something we need to remember."

Silence returned, allowing Face to wallow in his new guilt.

Then there was the sound of BA's lungs drawing in as much air as his poor ribs could stand. Face looked up just in time to see the big man's eyes slip shut before he began to recite.

"_And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying_," BA's deep hushed voice filled the room. He paused and looked up at Face, their eyes locking for a moment before he continued with the words Face too knew by heart. "_Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace..._" BA didn't finish the rest; he didn't have to, Face understood.

Face nodded. "Popcorn," he said quietly, watching confusion cloud the sergeant's expression. "We always had popcorn at Christmas." He paused, wondering if he was ready, able to give BA something back in return.

After a heavy sigh, he continued. "The nuns would have us make long strands of it to decorate with. It was chaos, but they never stopped doing it. They let us go wild with it every year..." He couldn't control his voice. It seemed to lower instinctively as the next words left his mouth. "...at the orphanage." A pulse of panic flooded him once it was out, but he wasn't sure why. He wasn't ashamed of that truth—he'd never been.

It was a full blown, flat out smile BA wore, one that Face had only seen on him a handful of times with the small kids of the villages and towns they visited. It always stuck Face as odd, watching that deadly, scary mountain of a man loaded down with weapons, get mobbed by smiling, laughing kids. What was that they said about not being able to fool kids or dogs?

"When we get back, we gonna have a real Christmas. Mamma will send cookies, and you can scam some popcorn..." And just like that, BA Baracus, terror to officers, most likely to spend his life in the stockade for beating up the world, was planning a Christmas party.

Face grinned. "I'd like that. I _really _would." And he meant it, which surprised the hell out of him and gave him an odd mix of elation and embarrassment.

Clearing his throat, Face turned his attention back to Callaghan and Mendez, but the medic was no longer crouched beside his patient. Callaghan had eased forward, taking the bowl of water from the ground where Face had set it. After staring down at the murky liquid for a moment, he held the bowl out for Face. "Drink," he ordered, his voice fixed with dogged resolve.

Face's only answer was to narrow his gaze and shake his head. They'd already been through this, hadn't they?

"Better take a drink 'for he jumps on you like he did me," BA's voice was dead serious, but there was something very much like respect in his eyes when he looked from Face to Callaghan and back again.

Starting to feel like a stubborn child, Face refused to reach out, to take the bowl. "I'm sure someone else needs it more..." He kept himself from looking to Mendez as he said that, but they had to all know what he meant.

"You ain't a medic, Face." BA paused to gesture toward Callaghan. "He is."

Jaw clenched, Face glared at the medic for a moment. He made sure to calm his tone before addressing the two men. "Give it to Mendez. He needs it more..."

Callaghan held still, bowl hovering in front of Face. "No, he doesn't."

"You heard the man" BA was back to menacing, slipping into anger like it was his favorite pair of socks. "Now, _drink_."

"No. Mendez..." But that was as far as Face got before Callaghan cut him off.

"…is dead. He doesn't need this anymore." Callaghan's eyes reflected an intense mixture of defeat and sorrow, something Face rarely saw in the spirited, young man. "He's dead. Take the water. _Drink._" There was no force to the words. It hadn't been an order but a desperate plea.

Face hesitated, stunned by that grief playing across the medic's expression. The whispers from Callaghan earlier had sounded so familiar. He'd been giving Mendez his last rites. Face shivered, but still didn't reach for the bowl.

Next to him, BA turned his head, staring at the dead man in the corner, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. There was something in his posture and tense jaw that hinted at both deep sadness and profound rage.

Again, the medic repeated his request. "_Drink_."

Face shook his head. "Give it to the man who needs it the most." That would be fair. No one could argue with that.

BA didn't open his eyes, but he did raise his voice, making each word snap. "He's trying to, but you won't shut up and drink."

Face looked to Callaghan, but he didn't have to ask the medic to confirm. He could see the answer already in the man's eyes. Quickly, he glanced around the tiny room, seeing the other prisoners give their nods of approval. It was the truth. They all knew it. He was the weakest.

Slowly, he reached up and took the offering.

It took a while for Face to drain the bowl, aware of both BA and Callaghan's watchful gazes the entire time. He knew they wouldn't let him waste a drop. Finished, he set the bowl aside, feeling the pangs of discomfort rocking his gut once again. There was no stilling the movement this time.

"_BA?"_His voice was low. Even he could hear the uncertainty in it. "I...I need to..." He halted, his words strangled with a grunt as he doubled over. He was panting, forcing the rest of the sentence out. "...get to the bucket..."

BA was moving before Face finished getting the words out. Using his left arm, BA pulled Face up, and guided him toward the dread pot. After making sure Face was steady on his feet, BA gave him a questioning look that Face could read clear as day.

"I'm good," Face gasped, trying not to look the man in the eyes. He really didn't need or want any eye contact while his bowels went ape-shit on him.

BA just nodded his head, and turned his back, finding a spot that would give Face maximum privacy —which was pretty much none—but still left the sergeant close enough to be at hand if needed.

Face settled in as best he could, trying like hell not to let his gaze wander back to the dead man in the cell, back to the man who used to be the weakest.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_January 1, 1970_

Lo was less than thrilled at having his interrogation with the pilot interrupted. Normally, he would've taken his time, let the pain build, but Chow had been adamant about getting information quickly. That made Lo's work sloppy, rushed. And now?

He narrowed his eyes on the nearly unconscious captain as his guards untied the ropes. How was he to get answers out of the man if Chow halted his questioning? It was an irritation, but one he'd have to deal with in dutiful silence. Whatever the case was, he couldn't ignore the General's summons.

Murdock groaned, a shoulder popping back into place as the binds around his elbows were loosened.

At least this prisoner was a good challenge. Lo grinned. He liked a challenge.

With a stir of reluctance, he turned and headed outside. He'd been ready to dig his heels in, make this session more than just a sprint. It was to be his marathon, the sure-fire way of getting the weakened man to break.

No matter. He could pick up where he left off tomorrow, start all over again.

Rounding the main cell-block, he picked up his pace as he came into view of Chow's headquarters. With a brisk march, he entered the building, traveled down the hall and knocked on the General's door. If past experience had taught him anything, this wouldn't be a meeting he was going to relish.

"_Nhập_."

He entered quickly, setting his gaze immediately on the man behind the desk, the man who already seemed to be appraising him and finding him lacking.

"I seem to have made a _mistake._" Chow put some weight into that last word, a tight scowl forming with it. The fact that he was speaking in English instead of Vietnamese had warning bells going off in Lo's head. Lo's English was far better than most officers, but it still wasn't as polished as Chow's. This was yet another way for the General to flaunt his superiority.

Lo remained still, meeting that hard stare. Showing weakness would be his downfall. "You are not one to make mistakes." It was praise but said flatly, coldly; it cut sharper than any insult could. Lo knew the game. Chow wouldn't be taking any blame. His mistakes always fell to someone else. They were never truly his. This time, Lo could feel the noose tightening around his own neck.

Chow smiled, but it was a hollow, toothy display that would've sickened most men. Lo, though, was too used to the General.

"I sent a report out, letting my superiors know about the colonel we captured. They are quite interested in him." Chow leisurely shuffled through a file on his desk. "They want Smith sent to Pho Ly Nam De."

Sending the high ranking officer to another facility was to be expected. Lo wasn't surprised, and he knew that Chow shouldn't have been either, but Pho Ly Nam De?

"I thought that camp was being shut down." Lo hadn't just thought that, he knew that it was. He had his sources, the same as any resilient officer.

"For Smith," Chow replied softly. "It will remain open."

Lo nodded. That meant there would be little paperwork in this matter, making it easy for the government to deny things later if need be. "I see."

"And..." Chow continued. "They want all Smith's men transferred as well."

Again, Lo could've foreseen that as well. He was having trouble seeing the mistake Chow had made. "And?"

"_And?" _Smile gone, there was rage bubbling up in Chow's tone. "I had assumed you would have gotten that captain talking before now!"

Ah, it made sense. Lo could put the rest together. Chow hadn't yet reported the capture of a suspected Agent. He'd hoped to get the man talking, taking credit for the information given. It would amount to more than just a feather in his cap. It would be one of the crown jewels of his military career.

"How long do I have?" Lo chose his response carefully. Letting Chow know he still fully expected to be in charge of the interrogation.

"I was able to convince our Military Intelligence that the prisoners needed rest before being moved again. After all, they are too important to let die en route. They leave on the morning of the eighteenth." A short pause followed as Chow shifted in his seat, still staring Lo down. "_You _have seventeen days. Make them count."

Lo waited, knowing there was more to this meeting.

"You should also think about changing your methods." Chow added. "They don't seem to be working."

That assessment wasn't fair, but Lo wasn't about to say so. His methods would've worked, had he been granted the time and leisure he'd been promised at the start. "You have some suggestions, no doubt."

"No doubt," Chow repeated darkly. "I've taken the time to write up exactly what I want you to do." From his file he plucked a single sheet and held it up for Lo to take. "_That _should get him talking."

Lo scanned the page. He'd expected it to be a sloppy plan, something crude, but it wasn't. Chow knew what he was doing, which infuriated Lo all the more. If this got the man talking, Lo would never be able to stalk out of Chow's shadow, but if it didn't then he would suffer the consequences of yet another failure.

For Lo, there would be no definitive win. In the end though, he wouldn't deprive himself of making the American talk, of causing him as much pain as possible. He'd follow Chow's directions. He'd be a good little doggie and do as he was told.

Still, some of the instructions had him raising a brow. "Are you sure of this?"

It was a low, humorless laugh that came from Chow. "Yes, I am."

"But you gave Intelligence a full tally of the men?" This was dangerous ground, and he had to be sure he fully understood what Chow wanted.

"I did."

Lo waited for more, but that smug grin on Chow's face told him the man was also waiting—waiting for Lo to have to ask. The power trips were getting weary, but that was the price paid for working under such a man.

It was hard to hold the bitterness from the question, but Lo managed. "And what will they say at Pho Ly Nam De when they do not receive the correct number of prisoners?"

Chow stood and strolled to the lone window in the room, clasping his hands behind his back as he stared out over his camp. "By that time I should have the information from this Murdock, yes? So I doubt they will take too long to question why a prisoner or two is missing."

"And if you don't have that information?" Again, dangerous ground, but Lo wouldn't give Chow the satisfaction of bowing down so quickly to his whims. "What then?"

"Then?" Chow turned, eyes fixed on Lo again. "I share with them the fact that Murdock is an agent, and they still overlook the discrepancy in the prisoner count. It will be taken care of...either way."

Lo nodded, though he knew too that if suspicion was to fall on their camp, Chow would be quick to shift the blame to him, but there was nothing to be done about that.

"I don't care which prisoners you chose, so long as it isn't Murdock or Smith. They _will _be expected at Pho Ly Nam De and those absences would not be overlooked. And you have full pick of the rest of the prisoner population as well...including the South Vietnamese soldiers. In fact, I encourage you to pull from them."

Of course Chow would encourage that. The man's greatest joy came from slaughtering his enemy, the men who were of his country and yet not at the same time. In this, Chow and Lo would never see eye to eye. These wayward Vietnamese would see the error of their way in time. All that had to be done was to get the foreigners from their land. There was always some country melding where it should not. The French...the Americans...they were all the same.

Chow turned back to his window. "You may go." It wasn't a suggestion. "And don't disappoint me."

Instructions clutched in hand, Lo popped a salute and turned for the door. This time he wouldn't fail.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven **

Hannibal eyed the lanky pilot, fully aware the man only pretended to doze. Returning to the cell a few hours ago, Murdock had immediately slipped into this feigned slumber, but the lack of harsh, hitched breaths and nightmarish twitches were dead giveaways. He looked too peaceful for the kind of sleep that had plagued them all lately.

Near the rear of the cell, Henderson and Fellows were napping. Wheezing snores and frequent, groggy, pain-filled groans confirmed that their sleep was genuine. Henderson's other man, Private Drake, was perched in his regular spot on the shit bucket. Dom, fighting a fever, shifted uneasily in his sleep next to Hannibal. The clap, along with God-knows-what-else he managed to pick up from his Saigon excursions, had not been kind to him. Well, that along with the fact that every bone in his right hand had been shattered during his last interrogation. Such a measure of torture had been extreme, a step up from what they'd suffered so far.

Hannibal sighed, his gaze wandering back to Murdock.

The captain's swollen lids remained closed as fevered eyes danced back and forth, roaming, searching his darkened sight. At this point, Murdock was hardly more than a bruised bundle of swollen joints and scabbed flesh. Hell, their cell should've had a revolving door installed for how often General Chow's guards came for him.

But, prodding the pilot, asking why he was so popular with Chow, was a complete waste of time. Murdock had a knack for avoiding straight answers—a talent that had been undetectable at first, hidden beneath a warm drawl and friendly smile.

_And I caught on too late..._

Leaning his head back, Hannibal felt that pit of guilt building inside him. Blaming hunger or pain on his oversight wasn't an option. These were _his _men. If ever there was a time he couldn't afford to fail them, this was it.

That deep throbbing returned to his temples, dehydration at work, making his thoughts a jumbled mess. Shit_, _screw water, one good cigar was all he needed. That would've had the juices flowing.

He frowned. There was no use focusing on what he didn't have. With renewed determination, he refocused his efforts, pooling together what he knew about his captain. There had to be a reason Chow kept choosing to interrogate him.

After the pilot's unceremonious arrival to his team, Hannibal had reviewed his files—at least what he could. So much had been classified, and, no matter what kind of scrounging the colonel did, he could only sort out pieces of the kid's history—which should've been a red flag from the start.

Murdock's father, First Lieutenant Edmond Murdock, died in WW II on November 22, 1943 on Betio Island during Operation Galvanic—about seven and a half months before H.M. was born. There was a damn good chance Edmond had never even learned of his son's existence.

And, from the scraps of personal stories the pilot had shared during his time with the team, Hannibal knew that the man's mother, Charlotte Murdock, died from pneumonia when he was young. After which, Murdock was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm—a place which, by the captain's accounts, was an ideal setting for any childhood.

Raised on middle-class patriotism and stories of his dad's heroism and with an IQ off the charts, it was little wonder that Murdock found his way into the Air Force. Why the man had given up flying with the Thunderbirds for the Army, to become a Slick pilot in a backwater hellhole, nonetheless, Hannibal didn't understand. Or maybe he did...

That smart, that capable, that willing to serve his country, Murdock must've been approached by the Agency. Hell, he was practically every spook recruiter's wet dream.

Hannibal pressed his stiff frame against the wall, letting the cold of the stone seep into his aching back. He was just guessing, and hoping like hell he was wrong. The last thing he wanted or needed was the CIA poking around his team. But, if he wasn't even sure, how the hell did Chow know anything?

Murdock's interrogations weren't like the rest of theirs. This wasn't about breaking a man. There was something more. There was something _very_ specific Chow wanted_._

Colonel Lo had been asking about Murdock during his last session with Hannibal. There had been an added need, a desperation for information that glinted in Lo's eyes. Whatever Murdock knew, he wasn't giving up and Lo must've finally realized that. Lo was probably questioning every person on the team about the pilot—asking them in ways that were getting harder to ignore.

Unintentionally, Hannibal's gaze fell to Dom, to the man's swollen, purple and red mass of flesh that had been a functioning hand. It probably couldn't be set, not anymore. He'd be lucky if he didn't lose it altogether.

Filled with disgust, contempt, Hannibal averted his eyes. The fact that there was nothing for him to do, no way for him to stop the pain of his men, had him on edge more than anything else. Standing by helpless, watching them suffer, hell, he couldn't keep doing that.

_Christ, Murdock, what the hell have you been in to? What have you gotten us into? _

But that wasn't fair. This was just as much Hannibal's fault, and he knew it. He'd had his suspicions early on about the captain, ones he chose to ignore.

He looked to Murdock again, studying him, seeing the pilot for the frightened, hurt kid that he really was. How could the government expect so much of its boys? How could he?

As if he could feel the colonel's stare, Murdock's eyelids fluttered open. It took a moment for his pupils to adjust, for the daze and confusion brought on by his surroundings to fade. Hannibal knew that feeling too well—that moment of disappointment, realizing all over again that this hell was real.

Behind them, Drake shifted off the shit pot, crawling back to his spot beside Fellows before ungracefully slumping to the floor. No one stirred as he did so, their sleep too fueled by exhaustion and hunger. Soon, Drake joined them.

Distracted by the movement, Hannibal hadn't realized his captain was trying to speak until he looked back. Mouth moving, trying to communicate, Murdock's words were lost somewhere amid his raspy breath.

"Just take it easy, kid." He'd make it an order if he had to, but, for now, he'd see if the man settled back on his own. "I'll keep watch if you want to get some sleep. Some _real _sleep."

"I…wanna..." Murdock paused, interrupted by his own dry coughs. His half opened, hazy eyes drifted to Hannibal as the painful noises eased, replaced by his panted breath. "…file a complaint with...the owners of this…establishment."

Hannibal smirked. "Noted. I'll be sure to pass that along."

He resisted the urge to ask about Murdock's condition. No truthful answer would be forthcoming, and the effort wasted in the process of denial would only leach away more of the captain's strength.

Eyes closing, Murdock kept talking. "Like to have a…word with...my recruiter too..." Split, cracked lips pulled up.

_The man was actually trying to smile?_

Hannibal sighed. "You could just have a word with your CO, right here and now, if you wanted."

Either by choice or injury, Murdock opened one eye this time. "Sir..." His words slurred as he tried and failed to get his battered face to work correctly. "I would like to request R and R...Hawaii ...would be nice."

"If I had the power," Hannibal replied softly, "you'd be there in a heartbeat. We all would."He'd never meant anything more. "You know, it would be easier on me if I knew exactly what the hell was going on." He left the question vague, open-ended, in order to test the waters.

"Me too."

Narrowing his gaze on that lean, bruised face peering back at him, Hannibal frowned. This time, diversions weren't going to work. "I think you know a lot more than you're letting on." He let that statement settle for moment before continuing. "What do _they _want from you, Murdock?"

The captain looked away. The effort alone it took to turn his head spoke volumes. He couldn't have had much reserve strength left in him.

Hannibal was about to repeat the question when Murdock's whispered words finally sounded. "Can't say ...sir."

It was the regret in his voice and the somber use of '_sir' _that gave the colonel pause. This wasn't his happy-go-lucky pilot anymore.

"They've been taking you a lot lately." It was a fact, but one that, somehow, Hannibal knew needed stating.

That got Murdock looking at him again. Both eyes were forced open, gleaming with apprehension before that attempt to smile returned. Face used his mega smile to draw you in—like a moth to flame. Murdock used it to distract, to hide.

"Yeah," the pilot replied. "I'm real popular with the short crowd…Callaghan not included."

Humor—yet another defense mechanism. Hannibal remained silent a moment, studying the man, trying to decide what route to take with his questions. It wasn't until he felt Dom softly stir beside him that he knew how to get the truth out of Murdock.

Still, he hesitated, unsure how far he was willing to go, how much he would sacrifice for the good of the team. In the end, he conceded. Asshole move or not, it was all he had.

"It's ok, you know..." Hannibal shifted, looking away, no desire to see that moment when his next words struck. "If you broke, it's OK. If that's why they keep taking you, I understand..."

Early on, he'd given his men the spiel on breaking. _It happened_—pure and simple, but a CO knew his men. He knew who'd bend, who'd snap and the few who wouldn't budge no matter the cost.

During their time in the camp, Hannibal came to one conclusion about his pilot. Murdock reminded him too damn much of himself, too unwilling to give in, too ready to spite his captors by taking his own personal win and all his secrets to the grave. If he'd judged the man right at all, this conversation was about to turn _very _ugly.

"Sir." Murdock's raspy, parched voice turned to a hiss of pure anger. "_Piss off_, Sir!"

_Bingo._

Hannibal glanced up, meeting the pilot's glare. "People break. It can't be helped."

This time Murdock was too angry, too infuriated to turn away. Every emotion usually concealed behind his smiling, amused eyes was, for once, on display—all the raw hurt, shame, anger and pain welled up, leaving him trembling from its overflow.

Jaw working back and forth as he struggled to contain himself, Murdock's response came through gritted teeth. "Go to hell, Sir." Too late to hide the first tear streaking down his cheek, he turned away.

"I think I'm already there, son." Hannibal answered softly. "We all are." Doubt clouded his need, his desire to push further, but he shrugged it off. He had a job to do. Period. "Does the question of you breaking bother you, Murdock, _or _is it because I'm the one asking?"

The pilot closed his eyes, seemingly trying to block out what he didn't want to acknowledge.

"And what's so wrong with breaking?" The soft, sad voice that came from the still figure beside the colonel startled them both.

Slowly, Dom sat up, his cheeks flushed, his bloodshot eyes darting from Hannibal to Murdock.

A wash of guilt enveloped Hannibal as he watched his man, using what little strength he had to keep upright, to stare back at them. He had no doubt Dom would get Murdock talking, but...

It'd taken getting his right hand crushed, being beaten, starved, suffering from the clap and the delirium of a fever, before Dom had finally given in. He'd told Hannibal and the others too, right after—said he signed the papers confessing his country was in the wrong, that he regretted it, but he just couldn't take any more. No one faulted him. They had no right to. Half of the men in the cell had already signed a similar confession.

Convincing Dom that it'd been ok, that he hadn't disappointed the team, his family, or his country had been a whole new string of heartbreak. That dull, haunted glaze of guilt and shame in his gaze had been hard to drive away. Even now, Hannibal still saw it lingering there.

"You said it was fine...said it...was..." Dom propped himself against the wall, the action a little too quick, too hard to be comfortable. Brow creased, he stared at Murdock with a glossy, unblinking stare. "I broke..." His voice turned to a breathy whisper. "I..._I did_."

Forcing his eyes open, Murdock looked over at the man. "_Goddamn it, Dom_." It wasn't anger—it was a bone deep pain that radiated out in that low tone. "I...it's not... you don't..."

Through it all, Hannibal had to fight not to react to either of his men. If he wanted to know the details about Chow's interrogations with his pilot, this was his best possible chance.

"I can't Dom." Eyes watering, Murdock drew in a shuddered breath. "Don't you think I want to? Just to make it stop...I want to, but..." Tears started rolling down his cheeks, catching in the stubble of growth of his chin. "They're killing me, bit by bit." He swallowed hard. "Making sure I can't ever fly again." Another hiccuped breath had him pausing. "But, I _can't _do it..."

"You c-can. Everyone b-breaks. Hannibal said so..._you _said so!" Dom stared back at him, confusion and fever straining his features.

Murdock shook his head and sucked in a sharp, pained breath. "You don't understand. It's not about papers, or confessions. I knew, back then, but it didn't matter. They tell you, but it didn't seem real. Now though..." It was a sad, soft, sobbing laugh that escaped the pilot. "What Chow wants to know from me, I can't give... Too many people, they'd die."

There could be no more denying, no more ignoring what was in front of him. Hannibal frowned. In his book, that had been as good as a confession from the pilot. Murdock had some tie-in with the Agency.

The captain's words became fragmented pleas. "_You_ didn't do anything wrong, Dom. If that's all they wanted, I'd of signed it, but I _can't_." Murdock pulled his thin legs up and rested his head on his knees, arms limp, useless at his sides.

"Murdock?" The grieved sting had left Dom's voice. His half lidded eyes were struggling to stay open. "Murdock? Sorry...not sure why...And...yeah..." He paused. A low sigh escaped as his face pinched in thought. "They ask about you, Murdock. All the time. Every time." His eyelids lost their battle and slid downward. "Why they ask about you? No one else...dunno... didn't tell them shit...broke my hand..." The last word came out in a low, sleepy huff.

Dom was already well and far into unconsciousness before Murdock answered. "I'm sorry, buddy. I know you wouldn't sell me out. _I know_."

Near the back of the cell, someone turned in their sleep, the angry gurgle of a digestive tract loud enough for the colonel's ears to catch. But, Hannibal kept his focus on Murdock. The moment his captain started to crumble any further, he'd have to back off. Enough damage had been done for one day.

"They ask everyone about you," Hannibal added softly, "and I can't help but wonder why that is. That's my job—knowing what's happening, keeping you _all _alive."

For a moment, they were both silent. Murdock with his head down, the colonel watching his man carefully, waiting for his reaction. The only movement the pilot made though was the struggled pull of each breath.

"Asking if you'd broke, well...you wouldn't." Hannibal nodded as he spoke, the certainty of his words needing an action to back them up. "I'm not a fool. I can figure out what you're into well enough on my own, and why it's best we don't discuss here."

Looking up, the pilot blinked at him, tear streaked face frozen, as if he was afraid this was some kind of trick of his weary mind.

"It's not gonna be easy, kid." Hannibal stared into those red-rimmed eyes, making damn sure the man heard and understood the next bit he had to say. "...but I'm here for you if you need me, and I'm trusting you—trusting that you'll know what to keep to yourself and what to tell me, and that's something I don't give out very easily, understood?"

For a small eternity, Murdock didn't respond. Maybe the man wasn't going to be so willing to forgive. It took one more deep, wheezing breath before the pilot gave a weak nod.

"Understood sir." It was the polar opposite of the last 'sir' Murdock had used, solemn, serious and filled with respect.

If the kid could've moved his arms, the colonel imagined he would've straightened his shoulders and snapped a salute. As it was, he just slumped against the cell wall in relief. Hannibal almost thought the captain might've fallen asleep but no.

The low hum started first, surprisingly smooth, pleasing, and then the first few words came out. Curious, Hannibal cast a glance over at the pilot.

Singing—that crazy, dog-ass tired, son of a bitch was singing. His tenor was rough but carried the tune clear and true in the rank air.

_"I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences; And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses..._"

The melancholy ache in the song was so honest, so pure. Hannibal closed his eyes, concentrating on the words. His want of freedom swelling with each line. Damn, the kid had a nice voice.

Anyone else Hannibal would've quieted, but they'd already figured that Chow must've issued standing orders for the guards to leave Murdock alone, not to damage him outside of his interrogations. This time, for him, the singing would be ignored.

_"And I can't look at hovels and I can't stand fences; Don't fence me in..." _

"That's nice, Murdock. Real..." Opening his eyes, Hannibal froze.

He hadn't heard the shuffle of feet in the hall, but he did catch the unmistakable sight of a shadow moving across the three by three inch peep hole in the door. Murdock, apparently sensing the intrusion as well, went silent.

"You...sing..." The broken English, clipped by the Vietnamese tongue, was quiet, gentle. "Please? Yes?"

"Hey!" Murdock's anxiety melted away into a toothy grin. "I gotta fan club and a request all at once." He clearly couldn't have been happier about it. And just like that, he started up again. "_Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies; Don't fence me in; Let me ride through the wide open country that I love.._."

"Can it, Murdock..." Hannibal was less than amused. "We don't know what this guy is up to. Besides, kid, Prison Camp Radio doesn't take requests." Directing his next line at the mystery person in the hall, Hannibal put a little growl into his voice. "Who are ya and what do ya want?"

The man pressed closer against the opening, his small face straining to see into the cell. "Song is good...You teach? I …" He paused, uncertainty playing in his expression. "I...Lin Duk Coo. I cook."

_A cook? _Hannibal raised a brow. That could be promising if they played their cards right.

"Murdock here would love to sing, but he's getting a little weak. He could use some food...we all could." He nudged the pilot, hoping the man knew what to do.

And somehow, to Hannibal's dismay, Murdock took that as his cue to start singing again. _Christ, now of all times?_

"_Don't fence me in; Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze; And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees; Send me off forever but I ask you please...Don't fence me in_"

Finishing the chorus, Murdock did something Hannibal would've thought impossible. With stiff, hobbled movements, he dragged himself toward that little sliver of light in the door, not stopping until his gaunt, battered face was pressed as close to it as he could get.

"Ok, muchacho, your turn. I sing, then you sing." Murdock's movements telegraphed considerably more pain than he'd been willing to show earlier. It was one hell of a show.

The man who said he was a cook must have understood, because when Murdock repeated the chorus, Lin followed, mangling it in a truly special way. On the second attempt Murdock's lines were cut short by a vicious coughing fit. Wincing and hacking, he tried to soldier on, but, by the time he nodded to Lin to take his turn, the pilot was a sickly pale, wheezing, sweating mess.

"No more..." Lin peered through the hole, his excited smile gone. "You rest. I bring water, bread. You no tell anyone. No tap! You understand? No tap!"

"No tap?" Hannibal frowned. What the hell did that mean? He turned to Murdock, hoping the pilot knew.

Judging by the way he was giving Lin a grateful nod, he did. "We won't tell," Murdock confirmed. "We won't _tap..." _His eyes darted to the stone wall speckled with marks from all their code tapping. "I'm real good at secrets. That's how I got all these roguishly handsome bruises."

Hannibal grinned. He'd be damned if Murdock's drawl wasn't getting deeper with more of a western twang in every word. If he kept it up they were going to need a horse pretty soon.

"_Cảm ơn bạn_."

The shock of hearing Murdock speak Vietnamese to the enemy was mitigated by the fact it was in that hesitating, awful, broken way that screamed 'I only just learned how to mimic these words from being in your country for a long time.' Still, it was a huge risk, almost as big as the one the cook might be taking. With one last coughing fit, Murdock's eyes fluttered shut and he slumped against the door.

The last bit was a little overly dramatic for Hannibal, but he could tell that Lin was eating it up. _Attah boy, Murdock. _All the colonel had to do now was grease the wheels a little more.

"You know, Lin, there are a lot of people here that could use your help, not just Murdock."

The grin that Lin answered with surprised the colonel more than a little. "I know. I help many! No one tap. You have friends? I help. Say them."

Well, this Hannibal _hadn't _been expecting. "A good looking kid with a loud mouthed redhead and an angry, large black man?"

Lin's smile grew. "I can help them."

"Another man, he came in with us...he's got some broken fingers. He might be with a rather hairy fellow." Ray and Murdock's crew chief, Olsen, were next on the list.

Now the smile faded. "No, that I cannot."

_Shit. _"Why?" Hannibal didn't like the sound of that.

Lin's voice went quiet. "Not now...later. Angel with them now."

Hannibal nodded. He knew that name all too well—Lt. Tommy Angel. The guards kept rotating the man through the cells. He acted friendly enough, but no one was buying the bullshit he was selling. Angel must've sold out to the guards the minute he got there. No scrap of information was too little for him to cling to, to pass on to the guards. Hell, Angel's intel seemed to make it all the way to Chow. That must've been one hell of a deal he made with the General.

_Straight to Chow..._

_That _got Hannibal's wheels turning. Angel could prove to be a resource that could come in very handy later.

Hannibal relaxed. "Ah, got it...that's ok...later will work."

Lin nodded toward Murdock. "Tell him _thank you _from me, yes?" And with that, he was gone, moving as silently now as he had when he first appeared.

"Murdock, kid, you did good..._real _good."

When no answer came, he realized the captain had finally drifted off to sleep. Hannibal smiled. It was about damn time.


	9. Chapter 8

_Warning: This chapter contains scenes of violence and torture. It remains at a 'T' rating but I wanted to give an extra warning to readers beforehand. Also, I'll plop another shout out to Tiggertoo for her help with this chapter. If any line seems rather brilliant, it is probably hers. _**  
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**Chapter Eight **

They returned too soon. Hell, every time was too soon, but this?

Murdock shifted on the floor as the door creaked open. It wasn't fair. He knew they'd come for him again. Hardly five hours after his last session and the guards were back, part of the psychological aspect of the torture, no doubt. Sleep was harder to come by knowing they could come at_ any _point, knowing the pain could return at a moment's notice.

He caught Hannibal's stare from across the room. Those piercing blue eyes still had fight blazing in them, but every day it became a little less intense, mixed with a sad, mournful hint of apology. There was nothing Hannibal could do, not now.

"_Đứng lên!_"

Too exhausted to flinch away, Murdock blinked up at the three guards standing over him. One had a nervous finger pawing at the trigger of his AK-47. A single lunge at a jumpy guard and it could all end. He mulled that over, finally laying it to rest as he realized the spray of bullets in the tiny cell would take out more than just him. He could make that call for himself but not the others. Plus, that stubborn will to live hadn't abandoned him yet.

When he made no move to stand, hands settled roughly on him. He'd been prepared for the force of the action, the way they yanked him upward, their too tight grips digging into his skin. His eyes slid shut as he focused on trying to get his feet under him, trying to take some of the pressure off his upper body, away from _their _control.

It was a hard won battle, but he eventually got his feet moving. By the time he reopened his eyes, they were well out of the cell and somewhere down the dimly lit hall. He sucked in a slow breath, watching the door at the end of the corridor draw nearer. Outside, across the yard and in that tiny building, whether he was ready or not, the pain was about to start anew.

A creak of hinges sent his thoughts scattering as the wash of daylight assaulted his eyes. He squinted and blinked, trying to regain his sight, but by the time it adjusted itself, they were to the shack and entering into the dark again.

It was hard to breath in the stagnant air, which was heavy with the stink of ammonia buildup from so many bladders too weak to hold their own. Lingering hints of body odor and vomit could be detected too but neither was as strong or persistent as that of the acrid smell of urine.

No one was there waiting for him yet. That was odd. Usually Colonel Lo would be lurking in the shadows, lips curled in a tight, excited grin as he waited for his entertainment to begin.

Murdock didn't struggle as his arms were pulled behind his back, his wrists bound before the guards moved on to lacing the ropes around his elbows. The rope torture still hurt like hell, but at least he knew what was coming. He knew what the pain would be. That helped a little.

Lo briskly stepped into the room, quickly shutting the door behind him as if even that slim flood of daylight filtering into the shack was too much of a luxury for his prisoner. But, there was no amusement playing upon his face today. He was all business, a rare occurrence for him in his house of fun. Something had changed. Murdock could sense it, see it in the man's eyes, and he didn't like it.

Head tipped toward the guards, Lo gave a single dismissive wave. "_Không, không phải ngày hôm nay. Hoàn tác những sợi dây._"

_Not today? Undo the ropes? _Murdock swallowed down the growing lump in his throat. Change...something new...something unknown... He could hear the pounding of his heart thundering in his ears now, the pressure of his pulse making him dizzy.

He struggled as the guards stripped the ropes from his arms. Blinking wildly, he stood up and tried to puzzle together what Lo could possibly be up to.

A swift kick to the knees had him on the floor again, curled up in a ball. Helpless, he watched the door open and two more guards shuffled in with a large wooden chair adorned with a full set of leather restraints.

Even Lo's sadistic voice couldn't shake Murdock's gaze from that new piece of furniture.

"I had it specially made just for you, Captain. Isn't that thoughtful?"

Murdock licked his dry, chapped lips as he finally managed to force himself to look at Lo.

"Aw-www, you shouldn't have." He tried to ease into his best laid-back grin, but he knew it lacked luster and sincerity. "Imagine going through all that trouble for little ol' me. Tell you what. How about next time you make me a tank? Or maybe a nice flame thrower 'cause that would come in _real _handy."

Lo eyed Murdock for a moment before turning away. His voice was sharp as he gave the next command to his men. "_Có được anh ta trong ghế. Thực hiện các quai chặt chẽ. Tôi không muốn anh ta để có được lỏng._"

That was the last thing Murdock wanted—to go into that chair, but the guards were on him quickly. They hauled him to his feet and forced him into the seat. His scalp prickled with pain as one of the men grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head backwards, giving the other a chance to cinch the first thick band around his chest. They were tightening the last of the straps around his wrists and ankles as Lo turned to face him again.

"I am running out of time..." The statement was said plainly, but that fire burning in Lo's eyes told Murdock that the man was anything but calm. "Chow wants answers. He wants them now. So, since my methods were getting me nowhere, I had to rethink my tactics." He pulled a knife from his belt and took a slow step forward. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you?" There was almost a hint of admiration in his tone. "But everyone has a breaking point and I will find yours."

"Chow wants information?" Murdock furrowed his brow, acting out his mock surprise with as much flourish as his restraints and his growing dread would allow. "Well, I want a pony, but I bet you we're both disappointed at the end of the day." Even to Murdock, it was amazing how casual he sounded, as his heart pounded and his stomach tightened a little more with each second the pain loomed closer. Not knowing, having to wait to see how this sadist was going to kill him bit by bit made everything so much worse. Knowing had been all he had before. Now, even that was gone.

Perhaps, it would've been easier and safer for everyone if he did just die. Death was nothing. It was just a matter of letting go, but the problem there was that Murdock had never learned the art of giving up.

Lo was toying with the knife, running a finger up and down the blade's edge. "I know how to make people suffer. I do that job well, but I have men who know how to do even more than I." He went quiet a moment, watching the unmoving blade in his hand. "Would you like to meet one of them?" He smiled. "In time you will, but for now...I will have to do. Next time, maybe. That will give you something to look forward to. But, don't worry. I won't disappoint you today. This will just give you a taste of what is to come."

"Really, don't put yourself out on my account. How about we assume that I understand you're a real bad, real sick little man who has a thing for beating on people who can't fight back." Shit, that sure as hell sounded like something he really wasn't at the moment— brave or even indestructible. He didn't know how to be that, how to be a hero, but he did know how to hide behind a smile and lead people on a merry chase.

That flash of irritation that happened upon Lo's face was quickly replaced by something of deep contemplation. Finally, Lo spoke.

"I do not think you fear me like you should." He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Murdock. "I came to serve my country, like you. I came to protect what was mine." He gave a sad, feral chuckle, the corners of his lips turning upward in a forced, hollow smile. "I left my home, my wife and son. I told them that it was for them that I went." Lo looked away, the unnatural grin still in place. "I came here to protect my family and yet they still died."

Murdock didn't allow himself to dwell on Lo's story. Who was it that said, '_the first casualty of war were the innocents_?' He was wrong. The first causality was humanity, and they had all seen plenty of man's inhumanity to man. Just the same, he'd witnessed some of the greatest acts of selflessness, valor and love. That had him waking up some nights, sweat stinging his eyes. How could something so wrong have moments that made him feel like he was witnessing and a part of something greater than he could imagine? What did that say about him?

Lo gave a weary sigh, smile gone. "My point, Captain, isn't about my suffering. It is about yours. My faith in this world is gone. I cannot grieve anymore. I have only anger...appeased by my enemies' pain. The war has made me this way, and now _you _get to suffer for it."

Murdock nodded his head slowly, considering Lo's words with care. "Or maybe..." He looked up, locking eyes with Lo. "...you were always just a bit of a sadistic monster?"

He'd expected a slap or a punch, but nothing came. There was only a span of silence.

"Thao was a good boy," Lo replied softly. "He was four..." He paused for a moment, stepping behind the chair, out of Murdock's range of sight. "...when an American bullet blew the top of his skull off. Not even his mother could save him, though she tried with the safety of her own body, but that gave in too soon, riddled with holes, torn apart by American weapons. So, I lost them both."

There was every possibility that none of the story was true, that Lo was just using another of his physiological tactics. Still, Murdock felt a wisp of guilt as he let loose his next barb. "Well, sometimes life is a kick in the nuts. Deal with it. Now, how about you stop boring me with your sob stories and get to it." True or not, either way it changed nothing. The pain would come soon and Murdock would have to hold out. He didn't want to hear Lo's stories. He didn't want a new layer to this grief.

Lo circled back around and faced Murdock, studying his captive with an intense glare. "You have brave words now, but let's see how you feel when we are done."

_Brave? _Murdock blinked. He wasn't brave. How could he be? He was scared shitless. This wasn't bravery. This was a lack of options mixed with a smart-ass mouth he couldn't muzzle even if his life depended on it—which it probably did.

One curt nod from Lo had the guards who'd brought Murdock's chair into the room shuffling back out again. It would start soon. Murdock tried to shift his position a little but found he couldn't do even that beneath the restraints.

Leaning forward, Lo brushed the tip of his knife over the faded black shirt Murdock wore, down the pilot's left shoulder. "I have been studying new ways of making people talk." The voice was too low, raspy and close. Hot breath caressed Murdock's face as Lo continued on. "Cut the right tendon and, like a rubber band under pressure, the two ends will snap away from each other. I hear it is painful...very painful." The knife stopped, finding a spot near the ball of his shoulder. An increase in pressure had the tip pressing hard but not yet breaking skin. "It is really quite fascinating."

Murdock had no reply. All he could do was brace for the pain. He tried to steady his breathing, not wanting to give Lo the satisfaction of seeing him pant for breath. He was about to close his eyes, slink away to some dark recess of his mind when the door to the shack opened again.

His gaze instinctively went to that stream of daylight, to the guards returning to the room, to that second horrible chair they were hauling in. Lo nodded with approval at its placement as they set it down about five feet away from Murdock and shifted it until it was facing him.

"Nhận được các tù nhân tiếp theo..." Lo was beaming as he spoke, a wicked glee twinkling in his eyes as he watched his guards hustle away once again.

_Another chair? Another person? _Murdock felt his blood run cold. That's not how this was supposed to go. The cruel little twist started taking shape in his mind, and even as he tried to deny it, he knew. With terrifying intensity, he knew what Lo was planning.

Murdock couldn't help himself. He hated to give Lo the satisfaction, but what started as a horrified, whispered, "no" ended in a string of broken curses.

His attention returning to Murdock, Lo gave a low '_tsk_' sound. "You will never respond to pain, not your own, I see that now. You've made that more than clear." He smiled as his guards returned dragging a slumped, quivering man behind them.

Wearing a sweat stained, faded SF ARVN uniform, the Vietnamese soldier couldn't have been a day over nineteen. He hadn't been issued a pair of black pj's yet, so he was still new to the compound. Newly captured, having just endured the torturous and seemingly endless hike through the jungle, this was to be his reward? Murdock bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood, holding the horror of his screams at bay.

The newcomer's frightened, frantic gaze darted around the room, finally focusing on Murdock in his chair. Instantly, his eyes flickered over to the other empty seat. Confusion melded with panic as he tried to pull away from the guards, away from that chair.

"Vui lòng," the young Vietnamese soldier sobbed. "Tôi biết không có gì...Tôi biết không có gì. Tôi hứa. Vui lòng?"

Murdock wanted to close his eyes, shut out the sight of that kid pleading, but he couldn't. Instead he found his eyes locking onto the boy.

There would be no mercy in this place, not for any of them.

Without any given order, the guards pushed the young man into the unoccupied chair and then struggled to pin his arms and legs as he flailed about, screaming as tears and snot ran down his face. When they finally had him strapped down, the men looked to Lo. Brows creased, heads slightly bowed and mouthed clamped shut in puckered frowns, it was more than evident that they had no desire to stay. One wave of Lo's hand was all they needed to disappear out the door.

Eyes still locked on the boy, Murdock tried to convey everything that he couldn't say within a look, but it was pointless. It would never be enough.

_I'm sorry...so sorry..._

And just like that, Lo was beside the boy, giving a gentle shushing sound that had the youth quieting. A toothy grin was all the colonel had to offer before the young man seemed to latch onto his voice, invest his trust in him.

"It will be ok," Lo cooed. "This man over here..." He paused and pointed a finger at Murdock. "...will make sure it is. He is American. They are here to help, right?"

The boy nodded, eagerly looking to Murdock with a newly kindled hope burning in his gaze. He relaxed a bit. His clenched fists unballed. "You... help?" The English was broken, but the question, the plea was all too understandable.

Murdock stared at those youthful eyes, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop this, no words, no magic, no end. His chest tightened, making each intake of air a painful struggle. There was nothing he wouldn't have given to fly away, to be anyone, anything other than himself—other than the man who would condemn this kid to death.

"I'm sorry." He forced himself to hold the gaze of those terrified eyes, taking in every detail of the boy, every flinch and tremor. Murdock had just signed his death warrant. It was his job to bear witness to the price of his choices.

Fat tears streaked down the boy's cheeks, his face contorting in his wash of fear and panic. "_Why? __Please_..." The words trailed off into a string of gasps and sobs.

But before Murdock could even think of a response, Lo's hand darted forward, grabbing hold of the kid's right index finger and snapping it backwards. He let go, leaving the finger bent upward, as the young man screamed and thrashed against his restraints. The other digits on his hand wiggled as he tried to maneuver the injured one back into place but nothing worked. At a sickening angle, it remained pointed upwards.

The sound of those sobs cut through Murdock to a place where no one should ever go. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears pushed out with the force. He could feel the droplets run gently down his cheek, clinging and pooling on his chin before falling away. This was too much. They hadn't mentioned this in his training, but maybe they avoided that for a reason. Would he have continued on if they had?

_Just tell him what he wants to hear! _It was a frantic echoing shout in his head, one that died before it ever reached the corners of his brain where the information was stored. He couldn't tell. What Lo was willing to do just to get this information was proof of that. Murdock shuddered as he imagined what someone like Lo would do to the agents and their families if he ever got a hold of them._  
_

Not to mention the horrors he'd inflict on a village if Murdock even uttered its name. It'd be burned to the ground. He had no doubt about that. Everyone would be killed, tortured. Even a false name given would lead Lo to some innocent, some person who had no knowledge of what was going on. In the end, Murdock felt the sinking weight of his choice. No matter what he did, someone was going to die.

Eyes still closed, he cringed as the boy's shrill voice rose with another surge of pain.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't...

His mind, a fevered mess of panic and jumbled thoughts, finally found something to latch onto and he clung to it like a drowning man in a windswept sea.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly, All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise... _

His grandmother had been a music teacher. She'd given Murdock the gift of a fondness for song, for the ability to lose himself in the melody. It was something that he'd never thought he'd have to use to survive, to keep his sanity. And, the Beatles' "Blackbird" song? Well, it just seemed fitting.

"Tell me about your dealings with your government and this can all stop." Lo's voice was low but somehow still easily managed to cut through the wails of the injured youth. "Names of informants...missions..."

Murdock opened his eyes and looked to Lo, then back to the boy. Even the colonel was sweating now in the hot confines of the shack, but not nearly as much as his prisoners.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free..._

The song continued to play in Murdock's head, bringing him some semblance of security. That was until he saw the twisted smile growing on Lo's face, until he realized he had started silently mouthing the lyrics. Lo must've thought he was on brink of breaking, on the verge of giving up his information. _Shit._

Murdock met Lo's gaze dead on. "_Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly. Into the light of the cold black night_..." His voice was shaky but not as much as he feared it was going to be.

"So, that's the way you want it?" Smile gone, Lo sighed. "You'd let this boy die?" He bent down slowly, kneeling beside the youth, staring up into his eyes for a moment as if he truly held any concern for the life before him. "And I thought the Americans cared." With that, he pulled the kid's pant leg up a little and quickly ran the knife around the back of his ankle.

This time the scream was sickening, turning into a wild, frothy howl as the young man pulled against the leather straps. A thick puddle of blood was already pooling beneath his foot.

"Achilles..." Lo said simply as he stood, wiping the blade off on the boy's sleeve.

Something stuttered and skipped in Murdock's head. He couldn't remember the next lines of the song, so he simply repeated the last ones again. He could feel that security blanket slipping away from him, that tiny void of safe harbor in his head was disappearing.

"Still don't want to talk..._Captain_?" There was venom in the way Lo said Murdock's rank, as if accusing him of something.

Murdock trembled at that. He'd been so thrilled when he made Captain. The rank, the privileges that came with it, being in charge of life and death decisions, were all things he had earned. Jesus, he was a fool. He'd caused this with a few words from a life time ago, an oath, a vow to keep a secret. How could he not have understood the cost others would have to pay? At the time he had imagined his father would've been so proud. Now he knew better.

"Just going to keep singing? Even though you could make this all stop right now?" Lo narrowed his dark eyes on Murdock and plunged his knife into the kid's left hand. Releasing the blade, he let it remain embedded in the soft flesh.

The colonel took a step back, plucking a new tool from a shelf on the wall. With flourish he held it up, but to Murdock it looked like nothing more than a misshapen spoon. Maybe a side was flattened? Sharpened? What the hell could he possibly do with that? The questions flooded Murdock's head, almost driving the dredges of his music away.

"Willing to talk yet? The boy has suffered so much..."

It took one deep, slow breath before Murdock could speak, before he could peel his eyes off that new object in Lo's grasp. "_All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise_." There was no going back, no making things right. The arrogant kid who'd made that deal long ago had damaged too much. _I'm sorry. _He looked to the sobbing youth in the chair. _I'm so sorry..._

"I thought as much." But there was no defeat in Lo's tone, no matter how hard Chow was pressing him to get answers, things still seemed to be working out in a way that pleased the colonel. Two slow strides had him knelt back in front of the kid, his position this time blocking the boy's face from Murdock's view. "This will hurt..." Lo whispered. "...a lot."

And the screams started again.

No, to call them screams didn't do them justice. It became a frantic scramble of any noise the human body could produce to deal with a flood of pain. Squeals, sobs, wails and sounds that _shouldn't _have even been human filled the shack. Every once in a while a lone word mixed itself into the chaos. A '_no' _or a '_please_' snuck its way out.

Finally, when Lo stepped away, Murdock saw the new horror inflicted.

Left eye squeezed shut, the kid kept screaming, kept spasming with each desperate, pain-filled sob. And the right eye...

Murdock stared at that globe hanging from the socket, swinging by that lone, glistening cord of nerves as the kid struggled, as he screamed for help that would never come.

At some point Murdock had started screaming too. He wasn't sure when, but it didn't matter. In the end, none of this would. He had failed. Everything he thought he was, everything he wanted to be was gone.

It was an endless span of time before the boy quieted, giving out only raspy breaths and muted moans and sobs. Murdock too had unknowingly followed the young man's lead, screams dying away.

"That is all for now." Lo said finally as he tossed his bloody tool aside. "At least for me. I'm going to leave now, but you..." He looked to Murdock. "...can watch him slowly, painfully die. It might take an hour or maybe a few. Who knows. Maybe he's a fighter, yes? It could even take a day. I don't really care, because, well..." His grin was cruel, hollow. "I'm a monster."

Looking up at Lo, Murdock was aware he was crying. It was one of the few things he wasn't ashamed of at the moment.

"Yes, you are." Murdock whispered, his throat burning now with the strain of his sobs and screams. "It's better your son never got the chance to see you like this." There was nothing in Murdock that felt bad for saying it, there was too many other emotions burning him alive.

Lo frowned, something more than just hate stirring in his eyes. It was rage, but he seemed to rein it after a few quiet moments before he turned away. His shoulders slumped forward as he took a step toward the door.

"If my son wasn't dead," Lo replied, "_This _would bring me shame, but unfortunately for us both, that is not the case." He opened the door, never bothering to glance back as he added, "We've set up new accommodations for you, Captain. And, if you are thinking about taking your own life, I should warn you that I'll have no choice but to assume the men you were captured with are also working for your Agency. They will, upon your death, be given the same treatment you have had the pleasure of experiencing so far." And with that he slipped from the room.

Alone with what was left of the dying youth in front of him, Murdock hung his head and sobbed, knowing every word Lo had said was true.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_January 2, 1970_

Face stared at the brown water stain on the wall—the product of a particularly fierce torrential downpour that morning—and listened to the raspy breathing of the men in his cell. He should've been sleeping too, but he couldn't.

Murdock was still gone and though that screaming from somewhere in the yard had long since died away—maybe some twenty hours ago—Face wasn't able to erase the sound from his mind. The phantom screams echoed and repeated, haunting his thoughts.

_Had that been Murdock? _

He didn't know, couldn't be sure. So, he kept vigil, waiting for a tapped message to come, waiting for Hannibal to send word that Murdock was back, that he was safe.

He'd been fooled once already with another incoming set of taps five hours ago, but his hope faded as there had been no word of the pilot. Apparently, cell room 'E,' as the prisoners had designated it, had been cleared, the prisoners dispersed to various other cells. Olsen had been shifted to a cell on the other side of the building. Ray had been moved to Hannibal's cell, a fact that had Face on edge. Maybe that meant Murdock wasn't coming back.

_No. _He couldn't allow himself to think like that. It'd only been twenty-four hours. Murdock had been gone longer in the past, but still that sickening pull of dread lingered in Face's gut.

_Those screams..._

He shifted forward, running a hand through his greasy hair. The constant waiting was getting to him—waiting to see who came back, who'd be taken next, when the food would come again. It was an endless grind of waiting. That alone was enough to drive any man mad.

Bottling his frustration, his fear, his anger, not giving in to it, made it all the worse, but if he lost it now, what would that do to his men?

_His men_—that almost made him laugh. Just when the hell had he started to care so much? He glanced around the room. His cellmates were sprawled out, laying on top of one and other, looking more like thin, pale corpses than anything living.

For them, he was the last sense of order they could cling to. He wasn't going to deny them that, but he wasn't humoring his ego either. Given half the opportunity, one other officer, he'd pawn all that responsibility off on them.

"Faceman..."

That lone, lisped word made him jump, had his gaze darting toward the door.

Shining eyes, small nose and a crooked, toothy grin were all that could squeeze into the door's peephole, but Face recognized Lin immediately and relaxed.

"Shit, you scared me..." Face plastered on a smile, half built of relief and half of honestly being glad to see the odd, little Vietnamese man. Hell, friendly faces were getting hard to come by lately.

"_Very _sorry, Faceman..." Lin offered, his head tilting slightly with the presentation of the apology. "Maybe more bread will make up for it, yes?" He slid the offered foodstuff into the peephole, his visage disappearing from sight as he did so.

There was a split second where Face had forgotten what kind of shape he was in, where he almost tried to hoist himself up to take the food, but his senses returned to him quickly. His shaky legs wouldn't support him. He'd only managed to stumble over every sleeping man in the cell before collapsing into a heap.

"BA...hey!" Face kept his voice low but somehow the big sergeant still heard, still roused from his dead-weary slumber.

"Wha? What ya need? The bucket, man? I thought you could get there yourself now..." BA went silent as he caught Face motioning toward the door. The big man tensed, quickly turning. "Shit," he hissed, a smile spreading onto his grizzled face. "Lin, good ta see you, man."

"Hello, B-A." Lin grinned. He took extra care saying the big sergeant's name, each letter getting a long pause of breath before and after it was uttered. "I bring you bread and water."

Placing a hand on the wall, BA hoisted himself up, his movements halting, slow as he moved his stiff limbs. With care, he stepped over a sleeping Callaghan and made his way to the door. Taking the offered food and water, he gave a quick bob of his head with a 'thanks' before hobbling back to his area to ease his body down again.

The process was painful for Face to watch. BA was the strongest of them all and even he was hobbling around like an old man.

BA handed the store of bread and water to Face so he could stash them beneath their lone pile of moldy blankets. The short jaunt looked as if it had already exhausted the sergeant. Shit, if they had any chance of escaping they were going to have to work on their stamina.

But there was something more important weighing on Face at the moment. "Lin, have you seen Murdock? Or have you heard where he might be?" He held his breath, almost afraid of the reply he'd get.

"Yes-yes." The answer was quick, eager. "He is in a cell alone. The one that was made empty."

The worry eased, but didn't fade.

_Alone? _What would happen to him with no one to look after him? He'd been in no condition lately to see to his own wounds. The only saving grace most of them had was that they still had each other to rely on.

"How long has he been there?" Face asked, still trying to puzzle the situation together.

"Some hours," Lin replied quickly. "I talked with him, tried to bring food, but he would not take. He would not talk."

_Hours? _That didn't make sense. Murdock knew the tap code. He should've tried to contact them, to let them know he was back, that he was safe. The next logical conclusion Face came to was that Murdock couldn't contact him, that maybe...

"Was he hurt?" BA asked, his glare making his concern clear, his question mirroring the one Face was about to ask.

Lin shook his head, not flinching at BA's tone. Somehow the small man had quickly come to recognize BA's gruffness for what it was—worry in disguise.

"I think he was not hurt, not his body. Maybe he will talk again soon. Then, he will take food, maybe."

Face looked to BA, only to find the big sergeant's questioning gaze fixed back at him. There was nothing they could do. There was no more they could ask of Lin than what he'd already been doing. He'd risked too much already. Somehow BA seemed to sense Face's thoughts, his expression turning sour but accepting all the same.

"They gonna move anyone in our cell?" Face asked, turning back to Lin. It was another question he didn't really want an answer to, but it was part of being in charge. It was part of being responsible for other men's lives.

Lin pondered this a moment, probably running through the inventory of information stored in his head. Finally, he spoke. "Yes, I think so. Chow wants only two to three men to a cell. The two in the back…" He paused to gesture at the two dozing men in the back of the cell, Bulfinch and Jones. "...they will maybe be moved tonight. I heard the guards say so. They will go to the pits. It is muddy and wet. Not good, but they will live."

Callaghan stirred and sat up, his expression brightening as he wiped away his sleep and laid eyes on their visitor. "Lin, you little shit, good to see you again! Hell, you get around here quieter than a nun fart!"

Lin's face nearly split in two as he grinned back at the red-head. "Cal, also little shit, good to see you! You are not quiet. You are no nun fart."

They'd only known each other for days, two, in fact, but the pair had become a comical duo in line with that of Laurel and Hardy in that short time. Putting any languages barriers aside, they managed to play nicely off each other's banter. Lin slipping into Vietnamese every now and then and Callaghan breaking out Irish slang that had even Face confounded.

Callaghan laughed. "I'm not holy enough to even be a nun's fart."

Now, however, Face wasn't in the mood. As gently as he could manage, he made sure to put the men back on track. "How many men have been moved outside?"

Lin blinked, smile easing. "Many. Most times, only two to three men in each cell inside now. And the men get moved more." There was an apology to his tone. "I cannot keep track of everyone anymore. Some people, I cannot find. I think they are gone."

"Gone where?" Callaghan asked, finally seeming to realize the gravity of Lin's visit.

A shrug was all the Vietnamese man could offer, but that was enough. He didn't know, but he could guess as well as the rest of them could. Whoever was missing wasn't coming back.

"Will you try and see Murdock again today?" It was half question and half plea, but Face couldn't help it. He had to do something for Murdock. Without waiting for Lin's answer, he continued. "Just tell him we're here. We're ok, and…_shit..._I don't know..." And he didn't. There was nothing to say that would make this situation ok. "Can you get to Hannibal too? Tell him about Murdock?"

Lin was shifting outside the cell, uneasy, casting flighty glances down the hall. "I think I hear the guards. I must go." He peered back into the cell, his dark eyes settling on Face. "I will try and see your friend. Get him to talk, to eat. I will see Smith too. Do not worry." Quickly as he could, Lin turned and padded away. He moved silently, making less noise than the plump, clumsy camp rats that scurried from room to room.

"Now what?" Cal asked, as he continued to stare at the empty peephole. The medic seemed to enjoy Lin's visits quite a bit, the shortened versions always left the man a little somber.

Face kept his mouth clamped shut for a minute, until he could trust himself with an answer not layered with obscenities. He didn't know what they should do. Hell, there wasn't much they _could _do.

Pulling in one deep breath, he finally forced his answer out. "We get stronger and we wait."

"I'm tired of waiting," BA growled. "Want to do something. I wanna hurt someone." He clenched a fist, as if to prove his statement.

Face nodded. "Noted. And we will get to that eventually, I'm sure, but for now..."

"...we wait." Callaghan said, finishing Face's sentence.

It was a shitty answer, but that was what they had to do—wait and hope. Praying might not hurt either, but Face wasn't sure if it'd help either at this point. At least, though, it was something to do.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_January 6, 1970_

Eyes closed, Hannibal ran through his mental checklist again. Peck, Callaghan and Baracus were in their cell. Frustrating as hell, but little surprise, Murdock, now housed by himself, had been taken again. Brenner, who'd miraculously been moved to Hannibal's cell, was back from his last interrogation. The man was stiff, sore and bruised but still full of piss and vinegar. Hell, Ray was holding up better than the rest of them, but the colonel didn't have any doubt his current 0-2 could manage. Face, on the other hand...

He tilted his head back, resting it against the stone wall and let a long sigh roll out.

This was a harsh break-in period for the cocky lieutenant. Yeah, Hannibal had planned on testing the kid out by sending him up shit creek a few times after Brenner left, but he'd never planned on sending him this far. If Peck made it out of this alive with any of the men currently under his command, he'd have more than proved himself to Hannibal.

Shit, if Face managed that, he'd be doing a hell of a lot _better _than Hannibal.

He opened his eyes and glanced over at Dom. Curled up, arms tucked up against his stomach, the man gave a soft, fevered groan as he slept. The swelling in his hand had worsened. The purple, glossy skin was pulled too tight. His fingertips were dark, pooling with the uncirculated blood trapped in his hand. For Dom, time was running out.

And then there was Murdock...

There probably wasn't a single person in the whole damned place who Hannibal had failed more. Sure, he'd never promised the kid anything, but he sure as hell still felt he owed him so much more than he could or did give.

Not even the distraction of revealing his rank of colonel had saved the pilot. Hell, he thought Chow would've gone for that. Instead, Hannibal's interrogations were mere child's play compared to whatever they served up to Murdock. The thing was though that Hannibal hadn't a clue exactly what they were putting his captain through. No one did. All they knew were the screams they heard and the few glimpses of the crazed pilot they managed to catch as they guards hauled him away from or to his cell.

On top of everything else, Hannibal had lost track of Murdock's crew chief, Olsen. The best case scenario was that the man was in the freshly dug prisoner pits outside. The guards had been shifting men around, taking a lot of guys out to the pits, making it hard to keep track of who was still alive, who'd been shipped to another camp and who'd just died off. Apparently, Chow finally figured out that separating up the larger groups of POWs was to his benefit. Well, the man wasn't swift, but he _eventually _caught on.

Henderson and his two men had been moved as well. Hannibal had gotten word that they'd been moved to a cell across the hall. So far, they were fine. Henderson was still managing to run the roost through his coded taps. For Hannibal, that was all well and good. There was no point in taking over when his main plan lay in escape. His only regret being that he wouldn't be able to take every prisoner with him. That possibility he'd had to rule out early on, but he could give detailed blueprints of the camp to the brass when he got back. A rescue operation could be mounted.

"Is this a solitary pity party, or can anyone join in?"

Hannibal blinked, looking over at Ray. He hadn't realized the man had been awake let alone watching him.

"And what makes you think this is a pity party?" It was, sort of, but he'd be damned if he was willing to admit it. Ray's ability to sense these things was annoying as hell, and yet it made him a damn fine 0-2.

"Well...I doubt it's a birthday party," Ray replied, a sad smile in place.

"Christ, don't tell me it's your birthday." Wouldn't that have been the icing on the cake? Especially if Brenner had actually expected Hannibal to remember it, but the man usually wasn't that sentimental about these things, so the colonel doubted it.

"Nope." Ray scooted closer. "It's Trish's. Well, at least I think it is...if I kept track of the days right."

_Shit..._

For a long while, neither man said anything.

"When we get back..." Ray shifted his stare, peering at the far wall, lips turned upward in a faint smile. "...you're going to have to tell her I remembered her birthday. Seems like I forget it every year. Must be the first time I didn't." Tilting his head, he looked back at Hannibal. "She won't believe me unless I get you to back me up on this one."

In another time, another place, Hannibal would've chuckled over that, but not here, not now. It was another weight placed on his back, another person depending on him, and he couldn't think of one goddamned plan to get them out of this hellhole—not one that would work anyway.

"I'm getting home." There was no doubt in Ray's tone, no question and absolutely no room for misunderstanding. "Whether it's a plan you make, or we have to wing it, I'm getting back to Trish, and that's _not _all on you. We're a team...one of the best damn teams I have ever had the privilege of serving on. So, are we going to figure this out, or are we going to continue moping?"

Hannibal did give a chuckle this time, but it was a dry, unamused thing. "If you've got a plan, I'd love to hear it."

He looked back at Ray but the wrinkled brow hinted that he, too, had nothing. It was then that the sound of a scuffle and a cascade of screams and sobs filled the silence.

Both Hannibal and Ray tensed, easing into crouches, ready to move if needed. Dom's eyes opened, his head lifting for a few seconds before he lowered it again, but he kept his fearful, glossy gaze directed at the door.

The movement coming down the hall was slow, as the grunts and wails drew closer at a snail's pace. Hannibal finally dared to get to his feet, to approach the door and use the small hole in the wood to look out. It might've earned him a jab to the face, but he'd chance it this time.

As soon as he looked out though, he regretted doing so.

Four guards—it took four guards to escort the weakened man back to his cell. There was no strength in his fight, Hannibal could see that. The strikes were sloppy, the kicks weren't aimed properly, but it was the pure unending fury of the scuffle that had them needing so many men to contain Murdock.

Eyes wild, wide and unfocused, the man snapped and growled between his sobs and soul-shattering screams. A froth of saliva coated his chin and sides of his mouth as his long limbs twitched and jerked with each attempt he made to attack his captors.

Hannibal watched the procession go by before he slunk back to his previous perch within the cell. Ray did the same, slowing slinking down beside the colonel, remaining silent.

There was no denying what they both had to be thinking at that point. Murdock was a lost cause. The thought made Hannibal sick, but he couldn't keep ignoring it.

"We could gag him, haul him..." Ray offered, but even that was a halfhearted suggestion.

If they did manage to escape, they'd be slow enough without having to carry along a man who would be fighting them every step of the way. Plus, if the gag came loose, he'd have every NVA soldier in a five mile radius on them.

"No."

That one word silenced Ray again. They both knew. It was Hannibal's decision, and it was the right one, but, hell, that didn't make it any easier. So much for '_leave no man behind_.'

There'd be no easy way out of this one.

A few faint taps had Ray scrambling toward their designated communication area on the wall. Head pressed to the stone, he closed his eyes as he listened.

"It's a message from..." His pause had Hannibal fidgeting. Whoever it was, Ray hadn't been expecting them in the least—that much was for sure by the wide-eyed way he deciphered the message and by the way he seemed to be replaying it in his head before relaying it to Hannibal. "...Murdock."

Hannibal raised a brow. "You sure?"

Head still pressed to the wall, Ray offered a nod as he continued to listen.

"He overheard some guards during his last interrogation. On the morning of the eighteenth..." Ray paused again, waiting for the rest of the message to be tapped out. It was a long process, one hindered by the abbreviations the men used. It took time to puzzle out some of the information. "...our team will be moved to..."

_God-damn_ _the delay! _It took everything Hannibal had not to crawl forward and push Ray aside to take his place. Not that doing so would've made the message come any faster, but his impatience at finally almost having information that could help them was mounting at an exponential rate.

"Pho Ly Nam De?" Ray glanced back at Hannibal.

"Alcatraz." He answered simply, watching Ray's shoulders slump a bit at the reply. Only an idiot would've taken a move to Alcatraz as a good thing. Hannibal grinned. It didn't sound so bad to him, but maybe he was an idiot. "Tell Murdock he did good, and ask him..." Hannibal hesitated, not sure how to word this next part. "Ask him how he'd holding up."

Ray was quick to send the message out, but the response was slow in coming and not what Hannibal had hoped for.

"The guys in the cell next to Murdock's say he won't respond. He just went dead silent. You want them to keep trying?"

"No. Give it a rest. Maybe he'll try and contact us again later." Though Hannibal doubted that, but Murdock had already given them just what they needed—an opportunity. "Today is the sixth, right?"

Mouth pursed, Ray sat up. "Yeah, I think so. Trish's birthday."

"So, we've got about twelve days to plan..." And twelve days to try staying alive, but Hannibal didn't add that part. Cogs already turning, he leaned back as the plan started to form. It might not be pretty, and he'd have his ass chewed if they did make it back, but it would work.

"Ray, send a message to the boys. Tell them I've got something cooking and I _really _enjoyed their first stockade scam at Phan Rang. That had to be one of Face's."

"The one where they all feigned food poisoning? I don't think we have to fake that here."

"Nope," Hannibal grinned, "but we do have to make the guards think that we're weaker than we are."

Ray nodded, but he looked far from convinced. "And after that?"

"One step at a time. After all, we have twelve days still. Leave the rest to me." Hannibal's grin tightened. "This will work."

But there was still a questioning look in Ray's eyes, something he needed to know but couldn't bring himself to ask, and Hannibal had a good idea what that was.

"...for all of us. Murdock included," Hannibal added.

Ray tilted his head, a slight smile on his face. "Good." And with that he settled down to relay Hannibal's message to the others as the colonel started fine tuning the details of his plan.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_January 7, 1970_

Fools shouldn't been able to rest, not that deep, but the afternoon heat and meager meal had lulled them to sleep. Only BA remained awake, keeping watch, unable, unwilling to let his eyelids sink closed.

Didn't matter though. Someone had to stay up, watch their fool backs. It might as well be him.

A low, weak groan had him holding his breath and looking to Face, watching the lieutenant stir in his sleep. Peck needed rest. Man had to build his strength up if they wanted to have any chance of an escape.

With one heavy sigh, Face settled back into the semi-relaxed, rhythmic breathing of sleep, and BA exhaled.

At least he wasn't shitting nearly as much as before. Having been Faceman's escort on many bucket trips, BA could really appreciate that. The clean water and bread Lin had been bringing was helping, but Face was still weak—too damn weak.

Yet, through it all, Face had impressed BA. The big guy wasn't sure what he'd expected from Peck. Pretty boy didn't seem that bad, but he wasn't no Ray. There was no way BA thought Face could take that role on, and then, as sure as hell, he did.

Mendez's death had taken a toll on the morale in the cell. It was plain to see in the men's eyes. They were ready to give up, but Faceman rallied them, kept them wanting to keep fighting, to live—which was no easy task in this hellhole. Shit, he even got the starving men to obey his commands when the food dumps occurred, and he did it without having to call on BA and his fists. Now_ that _had been talent. Even after Bulfinch and Jones were taken, the man kept his cool, kept the rest of them at ease.

Barely interrupting BA's thought, from somewhere outside the building, probably the pits, a dull, rolling wail sounded. The scream died as suddenly as it began. Inside the cell, neither Callaghan nor Face stirred from their slumber.

BA shifted, letting his cramped muscles stretch a little. He knew it should've bothered him more, that scream. He wasn't even sure when he'd started to ignore the wails, when they'd become background noise.

_Shit. _This couldn't last. No_, _that wasn't it._ They _couldn't last—not here or in any other prison camp. Either they'd die off or they'd lose everything in them that made them human. The fact that he could sit there listening to men in agony without flinching anymore was proof of that. Hell, it all came down to one thing now.

Hannibal's plan had to work. But, eleven days still seemed too damn far away. So much could happen in that time.

BA looked from Face to Callaghan. The medic slept _almost _as soundly as his patient. Callaghan's head lifted, his bloodshot eyes blinking slowly before he tilted his gaze over at BA.

It was a tired, faint smile that finally slid onto Cal's face. "Goddamn it, BA, how's a man supposed to sleep when you keep staring? I can practically feel you undressing me with your eyes."

"Forget it, man, you ain't my type." Strange how making jokes seemed more real, more effective than anything else BA had done since Charlie had herded them in here.

Callaghan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared down at his feet, a twisted little grin still on his lips. "Can't fool me. I know you love the redheads."

"You thinking I'm Face. He likes redheads and anythin' with a skirt." This was a game, banter with the guys that was as comfortable here as it had been on the streets of Chicago, in basic or most other places BA had been.

The mock pout couldn't even begin to hide the amusement in Callaghan's expression. "Say what you want..." He paused to glance over at BA and bat his pale lashes. "I _know _you still love me."

"You wish. If you don't stop the crazy talk I'm gonna have to beat the stupid outta ya." BA finished that with his best scowl, even though he knew threats wouldn't do any good. What Callaghan lacked in height he made up for in pure cockiness. Fool acted like he was eight foot tall and made of steel.

"What? You'd take that job away from the guards? That's just downright cruel, you know. Those little Vietnamese bastards out there got families to support." Callaghan stretched, being careful not to jar Face as he did so. "I figure you'd be putting half of them out of work by beating the stupid out of me yourself."

There was no thought to the growl BA let out. He could feel what was left of his nails biting into his palms as his hands curled into fists. From somewhere outside that subhuman scream sounded again.

For a long moment, they were both silent, listening to the cries from the yard.

Looking away, BA glanced at Face, dozing in the filth. Even asleep Peck looked absolutely exhausted. It was up to BA to try and do something to help ease that.

"Could beat your sorry self forever and never make a dent in your rock head." He snarled the words out, knowing that Callaghan would still take them as anything but a threat.

Callaghan responded with a soft, rather somber chuckle. "As a smart-mouthed, vertically challenged shithead, I've had a lot of practice learning how to take a good beating and still manage to walk away." He cleared his throat, his tone turning somber. "With a couple more days of rest and the bread, Face should be back on his feet again soon."

"Sure, but how long till you is able to move?" BA asked.

Callaghan was talented when it came to diversions, but he still couldn't hide the fact that he'd been beat good recently. With a mouth like his it wasn't a shock, but he was their medic, and their friend, and BA wasn't about to let him think he was fooling anyone with his '_I'm fine_' act.

This time the laugh was genuine His eyes sparkling, Callaghan replied, "I can be up and moving, dragging your sorry ass behind me the moment Hannibal gives the word." The cocky little shit made it sound as simple as that.

And maybe it should've been as easy as that. BA's whole life was a series of black and white choices. Right, wrong, good and bad had always been clear in his mind. Momma had seen to that. Thinking in shades of grey lead to nothing but trouble, especially in the places BA had been. Thinking too much about things that were less than absolutes made it too easy to do the wrong thing and excuse it away—especially when you were surrounded by people who could use doubt and uncertainty against you.

It was just the sort of thing that made BA prefer machines to people most of the time. Mechanics made sense. There was never any uncertainty in building something. You did it right and everything hummed and purred along in perfect harmony. Do it wrong and it spits out smoke and gears. Simple.

BA leaned back against the wall, ignoring the protest of his ribs. "When Hannibal say the word, it ain't gonna be your scrawny Mick ass draggin' me nowhere. You gonna be too busy trying to keep up with me."

Callaghan let out a low laugh. "Well, then I guess we'll just have a pure ol' fashioned foot race on our hands."

_Yeah, right. _BA let his eyes close, not surprised by how they burned against his lids. How long had it been since he shut them for a good long rest? The screams outside started up again, but that didn't stop the pull of sleep BA started to give in to.

Callaghan was awake now. He could take over the watch. BA knew he didn't have to say it either, the man would just know.

And sleep would've come so easily if only that soft, unmistakable scrapping of boots treading down the hall hadn't started. It was _almost _funny how all the wailing and cries couldn't rouse the men from their rest but those gentle footfalls could.

Face sat up, quickly blinking the sleep from his eyes. The look he gave BA and Callaghan held as much authority as if he'd managed to get the words out, but they understood his silent command. _Stay still, stay quiet—don't give them a reason to open the door._

Holding still wasn't gonna do any good this time though. Vietnamese voices, laughing, joking, drew nearer, halting just outside their cell.

"Tế bào này."

"Shit..." Callaghan hissed, rocking up onto his heels in a crouch.

BA didn't need to hear it. He knew how bad it was. They was plannin' on taking one of them, and lately the ones who left had a bad habit of not coming back.

The door swung open, the guards warily standing in the hall. They knew who was in the cell, and they obviously weren't going to chance it. Of the six of them, only one stepped forward, but he was sure to hold his rifle at the ready. His gaze shifted from one prisoner to the next, remaining the briefest on BA. Finally, he nodded toward Face. "_Anh ta._"

The other guards hesitated, watching BA for a moment longer before daring to take a step forward. BA was up and on his feet in a heartbeat. They weren't taking Face—period. He'd make damn sure of that.

Acting first, thinking later had gotten BA this far. Might as well stick with what he knew. Without hesitation, he gave the lead guard a hard shove, sending him stumbling back into the others. He'd kept enough sense not to go for the rifle. That, undoubtedly, would've ended badly for more than just him.

"BA," Face snapped, but he didn't say anything else, the implication was clear—_knock it the hell off_.

The guards' shouts were a mesh of chaos and panic as all their riffle barrels turned toward BA. Again, the same guard emerged from the safety of the others, his dark eyes settled on the sergeant. "Do not move..." Without turning away from the threat before him, he shouted back to his comrades. "Đi theo một tôi cho thấy bạn."

BA didn't look back at Face, but he could hear the smile in the man's voice.

"You guys didn't have much fun last time we chatted. You know, the whole being preoccupied with bodily functions instead of your questions... kind of ruins your intimidation ploy."

They hadn't taken Face much after the first couple rounds of ask a question, watch the man shit some more. Now, even they must've noticed Faceman was gettin' a little better.

Face had no fight in his words, no plea to be left alone. More than anything, it was a way for him to let BA know that they were still coming for him, to give him a chance come to peace with that. Fool didn't know that BA wasn't going to find any peace with that—ever.

The guards' next advance, which came swiftly, couldn't be so easily overthrown with what muscle BA had to flex. They flooded into the cell, focusing their attention mainly on the largest threat, and eventually BA's energy ebbed, his body giving out long before his rage did. Pinned beneath five guards, all he could do was helplessly watch what their next move would be.

Through the forest of legs surrounding him, BA could just make Face's drooping figure as two guards pulled him to his feet.

One of the guards looming over Face gave a twisted little grin, "Would you like we take big friend instead?" He gave a nod toward BA, in case his broken English hadn't clarified his meaning well enough.

It was a game. BA knew it was a game, that they wouldn't really let Face decide, but he still felt his breath catch, his hope of saving Peck gaining a glimmer of life.

_Say yes, fool…say yes…_

Face groaned, twisting in a useless attempt to pull his head away from the rough grip the other guard had on his hair. "Nope. He's too big and dumb to even pretend to answer your questions. You'd be better off taking me."

There was nothing BA wanted more at that moment than to wipe that smug, shit-eating grin off that guard's face as he turned to jeer back at him.

"You speak true. He is..."

Mid-sentence, the guard's smile suddenly vanished as he jumped wildly to his right, a string of curses following his frantic leap. It took BA a moment to realize what had the man moving so quickly.

The sound of liquid striking the dirt floor was his first clue and that golden stream arching up from Callaghan was his second. Then there was the laughter—that manic, gasping-for-breath laughter.

Callaghan was standing, but kept his frame hunched, low. Any guard that tried approaching got their own little shower before they too jumped away.

The medic hooted, his face nearly split in two with a Cheshire cat smile. "I've been saving it up for a while just so I could Christen all you little bastards. Step right up..." And still the stream of urine flowed. Shit, the man hadn't been lying about saving up.

Damn, that was wrong in so many ways and yet it still had BA grinning. "Man, what a waste of piss."

And then Callaghan ran out of ammo.

For a split second, Cal's grin grew tight, strained, before he quickly packed his junk into his pants and took a retreating step. Back pressed to the wall, he held his hands up, palms out in a surrendering fashion as the guards stalked forward.

Forgotten in the chaos of Callaghan's piss-fest, Face was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. Red-headed little SOB had pulled it off. Face was safe, but Callaghan...

One hard punch to the jaw had him down. Thankfully, the fool milked it for all he could, staying sprawled on the floor until the guards had to reach down and grab him by the scruff of his shirt to haul him back up.

Crazy-ass man actually flashed BA a grin as they started dragging him toward the door. Assuming he had any left after that little number he pulled, Callaghan was gonna get the rest of the piss beaten out of him and he was grinning? BA just barely caught the low whisper the medic offered as he passed by Face.

"_You owe me..."_

And, just like that, offering no struggle, Callaghan was out the door and on his way to the beating of his lifetime.

BA tensed, ready to try bucking the pile of squirming guards off his back, but he didn't have the chance. Whatever slammed into the back of his head did its job, thrusting his temple hard into the floor. By the time he pawed his way into a sitting position, the guards were all long gone.

"I haven't pissed that much the whole time I've been here."

Eyes stinging with dust, BA scowled at Face, slightly surprised the man had managed to maneuver his way over from across the cell. "You know the fool. Just gotta always assume he's full o' piss."

It hurt to smile. He didn't even realize he was until he felt that sting on his lips. Must've split it in his tussle with the guards. Hell, it wasn't the time for smiling anyway. Callaghan just pissed on a man. There was no way BA would've thought of that. The Mick might just be crazier than Murdock.

The quiet ripping of material had BA looking to Face again. Peck was shredding off a strip of his shirt, his eyes darting from his work back to BA's forehead. That gaze had BA raising a hand, touching the tender area and pulling it back to look at the thick, sticky blood coating his fingertips.

Face shimmed a little closer and pressed his dirty strip of cloth to the side of BA's head with shaky hands. "Ah, so that's the key." He paused to take a closer look at the wound. "I'd like to say you need stitches, but we seem to be fresh out of them _and _a medic." He paused to give BA an earnest, pleading stare. "Take it easy next time around, alright?"

BA wanted to growl, tell Face he didn't need no one trying to take care of him. He was the biggest and the toughest. He would watch out for them, but he didn't have the strength to do more than lean back and close his eyes. 'Sides, Callaghan already proved him wrong on that. Now they'd probably never see the little shit again.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve **

It was going to be one hell of a long-shot, maybe a billion to one, but they really didn't have a lot of other options. Hell, they had_ no _other options. Still, Hannibal didn't much care for the odds.

Sitting on the cell floor, he toyed with the two foot long length of slender rope and one of the thick stubs of wire Lin had brought him. He'd tested the piece of metal earlier and found its strength satisfactory for what he needed. It wouldn't bend or snap.

His fingers were aching and swollen from working most of the morning on sharpening one end of the wire and dulling the other. It was a tedious task, one he'd already done with four of the seven other bits of metal. Seven...they wouldn't need that many. He'd held out hope he'd find Murdock's crew chief, but that was slowly fading. The man had disappeared without a trace and that was a bad sign here.

"You got that figured out yet?"

The quiet voice didn't startle Hannibal. He knew the man had woken up some time ago and had been watching him. Without bothering to look up, he answered Dom.

"As long as they use the same slipknot around our necks that they used on the march in for the march out, we're set." It sure as hell sounded a lot simpler than it was. In reality, they were probably screwed, but Hannibal felt that wouldn't prove to be a real morale booster of a speech.

"And if not?" Dom asked.

"They will." Ray was quick to shift into the conversation, not a hint of doubt in his voice.

Hannibal worked with the rope, fashioning a slip-knot, wishing like hell he was as confident as Ray, but too many lives hung on the line for him to be cocky over such a gamble.

Without prompting, Ray raised a hand toward Hannibal, fist clenched, thumb pointed upward. He knew the drill, knew that Hannibal had to methodically test every finished element that would be used in the escape.

Leaning forward, Hannibal slipped the small loop over Ray's thumb and gently tightened it, stopping well before the rope cut off circulation. Next, he took the wire and carefully slid its sharpened end through the knot and the movable section of rope the knot encased. When done correctly, the wire was completely hidden from view.

One sharp jerk on the rope confirmed that the wire would hold, the loop wouldn't tighten. With a bit of luck, and some well-played acting, the element of surprise would be in theirs.

"I'm not complaining or nothing...I just..." Dom paused, taking in a deep breath.

Hannibal finally looked over, his gaze settling on his pale sergeant. The man had wasted away too quickly here, faster than anyone else. Only his will to survive kept him alive at this point. The moment he gave up hope...

"What's our plan after all _this_?" Dom motioned weakly at the rope and wire, his brow furrowed, mouth set in a worried frown. "Hell, we're still over 500 miles from even the DMZ." His concerned voice was raw, ragged and full of fear.

There was no way Dom could make that hike. None of them could, but him least of all. So, it was a damn good thing that wasn't the plan Hannibal had come up with. Too bad it was better for his team to be kept in the dark on the details though. They weren't going to like that one bit.

"You're just gonna have to trust me on this one." It was a shitty reply, and he knew it, but it was all he had.

There was a few seconds of silence, Dom's jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing on his CO.

"No."

Surprised, Hannibal raised a brow. "_No?_" Dom could be hot-headed, but this was something else. This was a man at his end making a stand.

"I don't have to trust you." There was an edge to the words, a harsh mix of anger and fear, one that faded before Dom spoke again. Turning away, easing himself down onto his back, Dom added softly, "but I _will."_

Hannibal watched Dom for a few minutes as the man drifted off into an uneasy slumber. Words of comfort would've been useless. Stern lectures would've been a lost cause as well. He was too close to the end. Pushing anything now would be a mistake.

"You gonna at least fill me in on the rest of this plan?" Ray asked quietly, slipping the rope from his thumb and handing it back to Hannibal.

"I'd rather not." Hannibal knew though that Ray probably had a damn good idea of what the plan entailed. He'd been there for that fateful operation. He'd lived through that hell just as much as Hannibal had.

"_Shit," _Ray whispered. "We're going into Laos." It wasn't a question and he didn't sound the least bit pleased, but Hannibal couldn't entirely blame him.

Pulling the wire from the rope, Hannibal frowned as he started to work the knot loose. "Yeah, well, it's twenty miles verses five hundred. You do the math."

Ray shrugged. "Won't be much better than being in North Vietnam though."

"It will if I can hitch us a ride home."

"_And_ the court-martial that comes with _that _particular ride?"

"Well, the dates fit…kind of." Hannibal knew it was a stretch, but he used the argument anyway. The court-martial? Well, he'd just have to worry about that later, after he got his men out of this shithole alive.

"Yeah, but that was the last time we heard the plans. It could've changed." Ray shook his head, his jaw clenched tightly as he seemed to mull over Hannibal's plan. Judging by his steady frown, his conclusion must not have been the same as his CO's. "_Christ_, Hannibal, it's been almost a month that we've been gone. So much could've happened. What do we do if..."

"We keep going." Hannibal snapped. "_Or _you keep going without me. Either way, the men keep moving."

There was a moment of pause, of disbelief paralyzing his 0-2. Hannibal had seen this before but rarely. Their arguments didn't often get heated. Ray usually had a way of handling him without letting things escalate, but, currently, they were tired, hungry and full of frayed nerves.

"And just how in the hell do you think you're going to flag down a B-52?" Ray shot back. "Wave your arms around and have it take a nice little belly landing in the middle of the jungle?"

Hannibal chuckled. That was a fun thought. "Nope. I'm going in after the fact. Should be able to get myself spotted by the SOG forward air controllers when they swoop in to get a damage report after the bombing."

It was interesting watching the tension slowly deflate out of his second in command. Usually Ray was the one making these connections first, correcting his cockamamie plans so that they would actually work.

"_Shit._" Ray whispered. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because it's still an idiotic plan?" Hannibal offered. In all fairness, it was.

"It's our _only _plan, and it's not so bad." Ray grinned. "So long as the raid is still on schedule..._and_ you don't get yourself blown up when the bombs are dropped..._and_ you don't get recaptured traipsing around the jungle..._and _if the FAC sees you."

"Yeah. Just all that." Hannibal shifted enough to pull up the loose stone in the wall he'd been leaning up against and deposited his sharpened bit of wire before pulling out a new, dull piece. "It'll be a piece of cake."

Ray groaned. "Sure...sure it will. And if it works we'll get a big old fat court-martial at the end."

"Well, there's that, but I think Uncle Sam might just turn a blind eye this time." _If he knew what was good for him, that was. _"Secretly bombing a country tends to be frowned upon back in the states. It'd get more than a few panties in a twist if the media got wind of it."

"Whatever." Ray leaned back, closing his eyes. "As long as it gets us back, gets me home, I don't care anymore. I say, God bless the army and all her secrets. Let her bomb away as long as I'm not a part of it anymore."

"Spoken like a true man about to be shipped back home," Hannibal chuckled. "But I'll join you in that. God bless the army and all her secrets."

"Operation Menu included." Ray added with a sleepy sigh. "You gonna stay up, Hannibal? Mind if I get some shut-eye?"

"Go ahead. I'll keep watch."

The conversation over, Hannibal's thoughts turned back to planning, back to the one element that was, hopefully, going to make escape possible.

His dismissal from Operation Menu had been well earned. He'd only ever taken one unit into Laos and the losses, in his eyes, weren't worth the risk. Ray was the only member from that original team still with him. Most of them were KIA, a few had since served their time and one unlucky soul flew home on a section 8.

The ARVN unit they had taken with them to train hadn't been as fortunate. None of the South Vietnamese soldiers came back. It was a loss the Army had deemed _manageable_. Hannibal saw things a bit differently.

Establishing a ground force to gather intel on North Vietnamese bases in Laos for Operation Menu was a mistake, pure and simple. Voicing that loud enough and long enough, Hannibal quickly got the boot. Luckily, someone in the brass had taken his rants seriously and the army started using SOG forward air controllers instead. The low, lightweight planes they sent in could do nearly as much reconnaissance as a ground force but could get the hell out of there a lot quicker if something went sour.

Even banished from the operation and sworn to secrecy, Hannibal had his sources. A few higher ups still valued his opinion enough to keep him in the loop, fill him in on the ongoing process and ask for opinions. If anything, after this little escape plan was brought to light, a few of their heads might roll, but Hannibal doubted even that.

He knew how to play the army game. In his debriefing, he'd twist it all until no one could 'verify' anything. Playing the part of the weary, confused returning POW wouldn't be hard. Keeping his post, now that would be hard. Keeping all his men—nearly impossible.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen **

January 10, 1970

For once, Face _hadn't_ heard the guards coming. Sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall, he flinched awake as, almost seventy-two hours after Callaghan had been taken, the cell door swung open again. Heart racing, Face maneuvered into a crouch, knowing full well that the new position would alter nothing of what was to come.

At least BA was at the ready. Standing, facing the door with fists balled, the big guy looked as if he'd been tracking the movements outside their cell for a while. Hell, a simple heads up would've been nice, but there was no use complaining, not now anyway.

Two guards peeked into the room, not yet daring to enter. From further down the hall, a sudden flurry of angry shouts in Vietnamese almost hid away the soft scraping sound of a body sliding over the dirt floor.

BA took a step forward, jaw tight, a white-hot hate burning in his gaze. Orders wouldn't stop him this time. Christ almighty, even the presence of AK-47's aimed at his head didn't seem to faze the sergeant. How in the hell could Face even begin to fool himself into believing he could control the man?

Drawing in a shaky breath, Face prepped himself for that moment of blind, raging chaos slinking ever closer, as he waited for the thunder of gunfire to start plowing them down. One more move from BA would do it—he could see it in the guards' twitchy expressions as they peered into the room. At this point it didn't matter how valuable they were to Chow. To these guards, this was a moment of life or death.

Broad shoulders tensing, BA was about to launch his attack. Face had seen the man in action enough to know his tells, but whatever hurt the sergeant had planned to unleash never came. The guards parted, nimble hands working deftly to shift their burden forward, to send the unconscious man hurtling into the cell.

Their aim had been impeccable. The small, limp body almost caught BA by surprise. He barely managed to get his hands up, catching the man but losing his balance in the process. They both toppled downward, the door slamming shut, lock clicking as they fell.

And just like that, Callaghan was back.

Face watched silently for a moment as BA started to gently untangle himself from the medic. It was a slow, painfully awkward process. Finally, as Face was about shift closer to give BA a hand, Callaghan roused from his death-like stupor.

Whatever Face had expected the bout of fists and curses hadn't been it. Hell, with how rough he looked, Face hadn't thought Callaghan was going to have enough strength to even utter a few words let alone put up a fight. BA looked just as surprised as the little man launched himself upward, getting to his feet with unsteady, swayed movements.

Callaghan's face was a battered, puffy mess of flesh, layered in shades of an angry, deep purple. Both eyes were sealed shut, forced into blindness by the massive swelling amassed over the last couple of days. Crusted bands of dried blood layered his skin, broken only by the streaks of dirt and sweat tracked over them. Whatever injuries he'd sustained to his thin body were hidden beneath his loose fitting, black pajama-like garb—which reeked of stale urine.

BA sprang up and grabbed Callaghan by the shoulder, none too gently, offering some much needed support before the man toppled over again. It was a deed which earned him a surprisingly forceful left hook. Fortunately, the punch landed without much damage—probably due to the fact it connected with one solid, tensed bicep. BA didn't even flinch as he blinked down with a scowl at the still struggling medic.

"_Piss off..." _Callaghan hissed before taking another clumsy swing.

"Don't you be talkin' about piss, fool," BA growled, easily dodging the fist that swung painfully wide. "Ain't Charlie, now lay down and shut up."

For a long moment, Callaghan kept one hand clenched. Then, a weary smirk eased onto his split, chapped lips. "Damn, I should've guessed it was you when it felt like I was punching a sack of hot, rock-hard bullshit."

Face relaxed as he heard the jab. Callaghan was one of the few people who could actually lighten the mood by flinging an insult BA's way. Anyone else would wind up dead or with a nifty new fist imprint.

"I said t' shut up, fool." BA's gruff bedside manner almost made Face miss just how carefully he lowered Cal to the ground. His big hands, surprisingly gentle, supporting Callaghan until he was in the most comfortable position they had to offer—sitting, propped up against the wall.

Callaghan cocked his head to the side, his body drooping a little more as he sucked in a shallow, raspy breath. "BA?"

"It ain't Snow white." BA's low, rumbling voice was gruff, like it always was, which, at least to Face, seemed strangely soothing. It was as if the man was proving everything was going to be alright with the pure fact he wasn't concerned enough to even try his hand at niceties.

Pale, bloody and bruised, the medic held his hint of a smile, but the second he tried to shift positions, the shock-wave of pain from his movements had his swollen expression contorted and twisted in pure agony. He was breathing too fast, panting, gasping for air.

And if that wasn't enough to have Face regretting his role as the sole officer in the cell, that questioning, expectant glance BA gave him did the trick.

They were his men at this point and that weighed heavier than OCS had ever prepared him for. If it weren't for the fact that Ray was leaving, Hannibal seemed to trust him, and the Army frowned heavily upon the idea, he'd be turning those stripes back over. Either way, it didn't help him now. Lieutenant Templeton Peck had no CO to turn his bars over to and no one to piss off that would demote him—beat the ever living hell out of him, yes—demote him so his men weren't looking at him for direction, no.

"What's the damage, Cal?" Face tried to take BA's approach, keeping his tone neutral. This was business as usual. Yeah, right_. _All the act did was made him feel like a bona fide asshole for being so nonchalant while watching someone writhing in pain.

Callaghan was shaking by the time he managed to answer. "Better question would be what's not damaged."

Again, BA shot Face a look, one that was just as concerned as it was questioning. The sergeant was deferring to him. It was that look that Face had come to detest. He was sure that it was the same one he, himself, gave to Hannibal whenever the shit hit the fan.

"That's hardly an answer Mr. Give-it-to-me-straight." Using the medic's own words against him, Face stared at the man, unsure how eager he really was to find out what the true damage was. They'd only be able to do so much for him here.

Callaghan tipped his head, his puffy-lidded, sightless gaze directed downward, a new, tight smile edging onto his face. "It was just a good old fashioned beating that lasted a couple of days. Bruises and all—nothing more to tell."

Face wasn't about to buy that. He moved closer to Cal, making sure the man could hear him approaching. "Ok, let's take a look then."

"_Shit..." _Whether Callaghan meant to vocalize the curse, Face wasn't sure, but he sure as hell didn't look too pleased about the whole exam aspect of the conversation. "I don't think anything is broke," he added, smile fading. "Just stiff and bruised…and some swelling..." He was fumbling on his words, likely searching for an out.

"I'm _sure_..." Face didn't bother to hide the sarcasm in that.

Broken bones were only a part of the problem. Infection, organ damage and any number of other things Callaghan had gone on incessantly about when looking everyone else over came into play.

Carefully, Face reached up, fingertips delicately taking hold of Cal's jaw and turning the man's head so he'd have a better view of the damage.

The jaw itself wasn't broken. Callaghan was far too chatty to be in that kind of pain, but the deep lac on his right cheek looked ugly. Worst yet, it was dirty—just like everything else in this godforsaken place. They wouldn't be able to stitch it, but at least they could clean it. He started the mental list in his head of what needed tending after the initial exam was done.

With all the swelling, it was pointless in trying to pry the eyelids open to get a look at Cal's pupils. Face would just have to assume, from all the visible head trauma, that the medic had suffered a concussion of some sort. That meant any sleep the man could get would have to be interrupted every couple of hours just to be sure he _could _still be woken up. That was going to be a new slice of hell for them all.

Face sighed and continued to prod every inch of Cal's head. He noted each hissed breath and near silent curse the medic gave, taking care to remember which tender areas seemed to elicit the most reaction. So far, the cheek lac and painfully swollen eyes looked to be the worst of the damage.

Finally satisfied with his survey of Cal's skull, Face eyed the dark, dusty shirt practically hanging off of Cal. Shit, for as much as he wanted this to be over, there was more hidden beneath that fabric, he just knew it. "Time to lose the shirt."

Arms tucked at his sides, defiantly, if not weakly, Cal shrugged. "It's fine._ Really_…"

"I'll have BA help me if I have to." It wasn't a hollow threat either. Face would use BA in a heartbeat if he needed to, and he could almost guarantee none of them would enjoy that.

Apparently, no more needed to be said. With a sour scowl, Cal obediently raised his arms, letting Face pull the soiled shirt off him.

Thank god Cal couldn't see Face's reaction, because he certainly knew he did a shit-poor job of holding anything back. The only thing he did manage to do was keep quiet. BA, however, did not.

Eyeing the mess of welts, decorated in an array of gruesome colors—red for the freshly acquired ones and hues of purple, yellow and green for those slightly older—BA let out a low, rolling growl.

"That good?" Cal chuckled, but for the first time in a long while, his tone held something other than that indestructible confidence it normally contained. He sounded unsure, and that coupled with the sight of his slim frame with ribs protruding covered in ugly bruises made him look so fragile, so young.

_But_, it looked worse than it was. True to what Cal had said, Face found no broken bones as he ran his hands over the medic's tender ribs. He took another minute to press and prod the man's gut, to make sure, as best as his limited knowledge would allow, that there was no internal bleeding.

Callaghan remained stoically silent during the latter part of the exam. In fact, Face almost found it unnerving how detached the man seemed to become from the pain. Still, he didn't find any pleasure in the sudden, sharp yelp Cal gave as Face's hands roamed lower, toward the soft patch just below his belly button.

"OK…you're done!" Cal snapped, slapping Face's hand away. "I'm good."

Judging by the fresh sheen of sweat coating Callaghan's upper lip and forehead, he was anything but _good. _Face shrugged. Maybe it was time for reinforcements.

"BA…" He didn't get any more out though before Cal cut him off.

"_No…_" Callaghan paused, licking his lips but hardly wetting them. "I-I…it's just…I've just spent about three days tied up, getting randomly kicked in the nuts. I'm just not entirely sure what the damage is...down there..."

_Shit._

Face could feel his brow crease as he tried to figure out the most tactful way to deal with this. There was no other medic here to turf this to and somehow he doubted BA would volunteer for this particular inspection duty.

Those bossy nurses with cold hands from MEPS filtered through Face's mind and for once he was grateful for the experience. "No time like the present. Let's have a look."

Callaghan started to stand but about halfway up his knees buckled, his face flushing from red to purple as he tried to catch himself. There was no way he was going to be able to do much of anything without assistance.

"Just..." Cal gasped as Face came to his aid. "...just make sure everything is where is should be..." The man looked like he was about to be sick as his pants slid to the floor and he waited for Face to answer.

"Well, don't think you're going to win any photo contests, but it looks like you're mostly true to what I remember from ninth grade health class." That was if his health class had been taught by demented circus clowns that used props like a deformed jimmy dean sausage and purple grapefruits. But, that wasn't what he'd been asked and by the time Callaghan's eyes were able to open again, things would look better— _hopefully_.

Callaghan let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I gotta admit, I really should've considered how badly the guards hold a grudge. Whatever you do, _don't_ piss on them. They really take it out on your weapon of choice."

Pulling the pants back up had been awkward as Callaghan was quickly losing what little strength he had left. By the time Face, with BA's help, had lowered him back into a seated position, it was more than obvious how much pain Callaghan was in. He'd hid it well when he first came back, but now all illusions were dropped.

"I'd literally push my grandmother down a flight of stairs for a bag of ice." And by all accounts, Cal sounded like he meant it.

"Man," BA huffed, "that ain't right."

Grinning from ear to ear, Cal gave a chuckle. "Why? She wouldn't feel a thing. She's been dead for five years."

The disgusted grumble that sounded from BA was all the reply Callaghan needed to fuel another deep, happy chuckle.

"I don't know 'bout you, fool. Damn sick bastard..." BA sounded as tough as always, but there was a hint of a smile on his face—something Callaghan couldn't see.

Cal almost couldn't contain his lopsided grin any longer. "Hell, I don't care what you say, BA. I'm just gonna bask in this win. I still got both my nuts. I was almost sure I'd lost one somewhere along the way."

Though he didn't want to deny BA and Callaghan any slim joy they'd found, Face couldn't sway too far from the task at hand.

"Hey, fool, that…"

One silent glance up was all Face needed to silence BA and for the big man to understand his unspoken order. With a curt nod, Baracus positioned himself near the door, his large face hulking near the peephole, keeping watch for any approaching guards.

With BA in place, Face slid their jug of clean water out of its hiding place from beneath a pile of rags. If they were caught with the supplies Lin had been sneaking them, they'd be in for a whole new world of hurt. None of them would give the little Vietnamese man up, and the punishment for that alone would be brutal.

"Keep your mouth shut, Cal." It was more of a warning that Face was going to cause him pain than anything else. Callaghan knew the score. In here, silence was their friend.

Callaghan's only response was to clamp his lips together, causing each breath to whistle faintly through his swollen nose.

Face made quick work of cleaning the large lac up as best he could. A few smaller cuts hidden within Cal's scalp got a once over as well.

Capping the jug and sliding it back into its hidden sanctuary, Face gave himself a moment to gather his thoughts before turning back to BA and Cal. "Neither one of you are in any shape for another round of twenty questions. So cool it." _Damn. _That tone sounded a lot like Hannibal's.

Cal gave a weak nod. He was slumped now, head lolling off to one side as pain and exhaustion seemed to be winning over. BA scowled his acknowledgement of Face's demand, but whether he'd abide by it, well, only time would tell. It didn't matter though. One way or another, Face would make sure neither of them would be taken again before their departure date rolled around. He promised himself that.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen **

_January 11, 1970_

A primitive, feral fear came with the night—one Hannibal refused to succumb to. Other men caved. He could hear their stifled sounds of anguish cutting through the darkness, but if Korea and the jungles of 'Nam hadn't already swallowed up his courage by now, he'd be damned if he'd let Chow's shitty camp do it.

Sure, he may have been able to cling to some of his nerve, but he wasn't about fall prey to any asinine sense of security that meager feeling provided. Bravery without intelligence was akin to brawn without action—nice to have, but, ultimately, a waste of a damn good, God-given gift.

So, it was no accident that he found himself awake in the dead of night, listening to the sounds of the camp, to the men whimpering in their sleep.

He wouldn't let the fear take over, but that didn't change the fact that men had been disappearing in the wee hours of the night and none of them had yet to return.

The tales retold in the morning, passed from cell to cell, were always the same—a blinding light would shine into the room and by the time the prisoners were awake, were capable of forming rational thought, someone was gone. Three men had been taken that way now or was it four? With the shifting of prisoners, the pits and bamboo cages being constructed outside, it was too hard to keep track anymore.

And, in the end, there was little they could do to combat these abductions. A few catnaps during the day and Hannibal was ready to sit up all night, but, even as he waited in the dark, he knew that if the guards came there wasn't one goddamn thing he could do to stop them. Still, not being prepared, not putting up a fight was something beyond him. So he sat, letting plans stew in his brain, wracking his thoughts for a solution to this problem. At the very least, he could try and protect the men with him.

"Colonel?" The voice was low, quiet, but still managed to startle Hannibal. "Colonel? Are you awake?"

It took a moment for Hannibal to connect whom the voice belonged to, and even then his exhausted brain couldn't verify it completely.

"Dom? Is that you?"

"Yeah." The answer was soft, strangely unsure of itself.

That uncertainty fed into Hannibal as did the long span of silence sounded after the lone word. The colonel started to wonder if he'd been hearing things, if Dom was really even awake let alone talking to him. He waited a few tense moments longer then shrugged the short conversation off. If it had been Dom, he'd probably drifted off to sleep, if not, well, that was just another set of problems for Hannibal to deal with. If he started hallucinating, they were all really going to be up shit creek.

"Sir, could you do something for me?"

Hannibal flinched, just a little, not expecting the stillness to be broken again, but he steadied his voice before he spoke. "Sure, depending, of course. I've kinda limited resources at the moment."

The soft crunch of dirt, the gentle, pained breaths warned Hannibal that Dom was shuffling closer, so he was prepared when he felt his sergeant's hand reach out and tentatively touch his shoulder. There was a tremor in the touch. Dom shouldn't have been moving around. He should've been resting, but the fact he felt well enough to even try his hand at any kind of mobility gave Hannibal a boost of encouragement.

What Hannibal hadn't been expecting was for Dom to fumble and feel his way down his arm. Taking the colonel's hand in his own, Dom's clumsy fingers managed to slip something into Hannibal's palm before letting go.

"Could you give that to BA?" Dom asked, his struggle to shift back to his original spot already underway. The exertion of the task was evident in his every rasped breath.

The cold length of metal in Hannibal's hand had him confused, maybe even concerned. Upon arrival at the camp, they'd been stripped of everything. So, what the hell was this?

Dom stilled and replied quietly, as if he could read his CO's mind. "It's that chain. Little shitheads let me keep my socks on. Buck ass naked with socks on. I had the thing looped around my ankle, out of sight. Started wearing it awhile back for luck. It doesn't seem to be working much though anymore."

Hannibal frowned, the meaning of the gesture suddenly becoming all too clear.

He could remember that day well. It was partway into the BA's second week on the team when Bosco stormed up to him. His face was a pinched mess of raw, lethal fury. Hell, Hannibal thought his sergeant was going to deck him on the spot, but instead the hulk of a man made a demand.

He wanted off the team.

The request, of course, was denied. If a man didn't try and get off his unit at least once in the first month Hannibal usually cut him loose, because anyone who didn't was probably bat-shit crazy.

But, whatever triggered BA's sudden desire for a transfer had Hannibal intrigued. The sergeant didn't necessarily seem happy on the team, but, realistically, BA didn't seem happy anywhere. He kept quiet, did his job, and when he got upset, he slugged it out. He _didn't _make requests.

None of Hannibal's picks ever found the transition easy, but BA had more trouble than the rest. He was too much of a loner, too quiet, too intimidating and too distrustful. Problem was, most guys could bury some of that, keep it hidden, but BA wore every ounce of it on his sleeve, which wasn't sitting well with his teammates. He wasn't there to make friends, which was fine, that was his choice, but it wasn't one that made life easy for the big man.

Hannibal did his damnedest to find out what set his sergeant off that day, but no amount of questioning could get any answers out of BA, and Hannibal eventually let the matter drop. It wasn't until Face was added to the crew, a few weeks later, that Hannibal finally found his answer. It came to him as indirectly as possible. Ray had weaseled it from Face, who had gotten the story from Cal, who had seen the initial incident first hand.

Apparently, Dom had somehow baited BA into a few hands of poker. He let the big guy win for a while before taking him to the cleaners. The whole thing had been rigged, and the last item Dom had swindled was BA's gold chain. It was a loss that he could tell still sat sorely with BA. That chain meant something to him, something important. Hannibal's best guess was that it had been a gift from his mom, but no one knew for sure.

And, while he approved of having the item returned, Hannibal didn't entirely like what the action signified. "Give it to him yourself." He held it out, but in the darkness he knew Dom wouldn't know, wouldn't reach for it.

A few wheezed breaths preceded the answer. Each draw of air was painful to hear, too reminiscent of a death rattle. "Naw, you do it. And tell him..." Another labored breath sounded. "...tell him he was right. I cheated."

_Shit. _Dom was giving up, giving in. This wasn't good.

"I asked him once, you know..." Dom continued.

Clenching his fist, Hannibal lowered his arm, letting the chain dig into the calloused palm of his hand as he listened to his man.

"...I asked him why he didn't beat the livin' shit outta me for that stunt. Even if he didn't know I was cheatin' for sure. He thought it, and he's nearly ground the life outta people for a lot less."

"Yeah, he has," Hannibal agreed. "So, what'd he say?"

"Said it was his own fault. That he shouldn't have been gambling, and that was it."

The answer was anticlimactic, probably as much for Hannibal as it had been for Dom. So much for gaining some insight into BA's psyche. The man was damn tight-lipped, that was for sure.

"I was gonna sell the chain right after I got it, but I held onto it." Dom paused to let out a low, weary sigh. "Then BA saved our asses on that bridge job near Kien Duc. I meant to give it back after that, but you know how it goes. The timing was never right, so I thought I'd give it off to you. Let you take care of it for me."

The defeat was there, Hannibal could hear it. No pep talk could fix this. No command could make a man retain his will to live. Dom had always been strong, he'd always been reliable, but even he had his limits.

"Get some rest." Hannibal hadn't meant for it to sound like a dismissal of the man's intent, but, somehow, it did. He thought of correcting that, of trying to right the situation, but he already knew that would be a bumbling effort at best. So, he kept quiet, listening to Dom shift around and finally settle into the telltale rhythmic breathing of a rather unrestful slumber.

For the next two hours, Hannibal sat in a hazy stupor, not able to sleep, but not capable of a precise, focused line of thought either. Nothing stuck around long enough to cling to, but, then again, none of the mental garbage that was coming to him was worth it either. He needed to rest. He'd pushed himself too far, but something had him off kilter, something wasn't sitting right.

He looked again toward where Dom lay. Enough dim morning light had finally drawn itself into the cell to give a faint shape to Dom's sleeping form. That pit of unrest, dread tightened in Hannibal's stomach.

It was then that he heard them—the faint whispers in Vietnamese. Hannibal propped himself up a little straighter, straining to hear more, but he hadn't the opportunity to. The door flung open, a bright light blinding him. Ray gave a shout followed by a thick groan. Hannibal could hear the struggle, but he was too busy fighting off his own attacker to do anything for his men.

The stock of the rifle caught him in the bridge of his nose, his eyes instantly watering from the force of the impact. Another jab to the gut had him doubled over, sucking in a pained breath.

A few more shouted words of Vietnamese, sharp and harsh, and then the light vanished. Hannibal started to sit back up when the door slammed shut again, causing him to flinch away from the thunderous sound.

Breathing hard, he peered across the cell, eyes adjusting to the low light again, but only Ray was there staring back at him. Dom was gone.


	16. Chapter 15

**_Warning: This chapter contains violence and scenes of torture. _**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

_January 13, 1970_

Face had been dozing when the screaming began—those panicked, shrill shrieks of unreserved terror that no living human being should've been capable of making. As he bolted out of this slumber into a sitting position, the cries sounding outside the cell threatened to engulf him, to drown him in his own swelling fear and heartache.

Closing his eyes, he shivered as his fatigued mind recognized the outburst for what it was. The guards had come for Murdock again, and, just as before, the pilot fought and yelled with what little strength of his remained. Face flinched as Murdock's wretched, animalistic yowl sharply rose and then faded—punctuated by a few angry shouts from the guards in Vietnamese.

Clamping his hands over his ears, Face lay back down and curled up into a ball but found that he couldn't block out the sound. How much more could Murdock take? How much more of this could _any _of them take?

He fought back the tears. They would do no good—nothing would. There was absolutely _nothing _he could do. He'd tried the last time the guards came. He'd yelled obscenities and pounded on the cell door until his voice was gone and his fists bled, but his struggles achieved nothing. They'd still taken the pilot along with countless others.

Face blinked at that thought. Who else would they take this time? He swallowed hard. A portion of his worry shifted from Murdock to himself. They_ always _took multiple prisoners at once. Some came back, others didn't.

He cast a nervous glance across the cell to where BA stood. Dark skin speckled with mud and scabs, the sergeant's body was rigid with tension. Standing silent sentry, he watched the door. Even beaten and weak, the man looked as threatening as all hell. Suddenly, his gaze shifted to Face, sending an unspoken warning.

The screaming was getting louder—growing nearer. Face scrambled to his feet, surprising Callaghan who had been sitting stock-still next to him. The medic's right eye was still swollen painfully shut, and the left, nestled within the bruised, puffy flesh of his red-rim lids, could only open a sliver. Tilting his head for a better view, Callaghan's one _good _eye watered with the strain.

"_Shit…"_The whispered word came out as a low hiss from Callaghan. He said nothing else though as the shouting in the hall had grown deafening, making talking pointless.

For a moment they all froze, breathing hard, watching the door and listening to Murdock's wailing. Finally, a flare of courage rose in Face, berating him for remaining still. He took a step forward, meaning to join BA, but his knees unexpectedly buckled beneath his weight. _Shit._

When the door swung open, only BA moved. The battered sergeant placed himself front and center in their tiny cell, setting into his menacing stance directly between the guards and the rest of the prisoners. Fists balled, shoulders squared, Baracus was ready to start a fight he was clearly going to lose.

As Face tried to rise again, he heard BA start to struggle against the flood of Vietnamese guards swarming into their cell. And then hands settled onto Face's arms, pulling him upward. Confused, he looked into the NVA faces glaring down at him. He attempted to jerk away but found their grasps too tight.

"Đến lặng lẽ."

He frowned, the translation coming to him slowly. _Come quietly?_They obviously hadn't said the same to Murdock or maybe they had. He just hadn't listened.

Face glanced over at BA. No longer standing, the sergeant lay on the dirt floor surrounded by guards. All BA could do was shield his head with his arms as the kicks kept coming. It was a fight no longer. Now it was nothing more than a beating. Still nearly blind, Callaghan was nearby, easily restrained by two guards.

There was only one way to end it.

Wobbling on unsteady feet, Face gave a resigned nod to the guards holding him. He wouldn't fight. As they guided him toward the cell door, the guards who had been brutalizing BA fell in line behind them.

BA's weak, gurgled protests barely reached Face's ears as the door slammed shut. It was too late. Nothing could change what was about to happen. Steeling himself for the upcoming pain, Face forced his emotions under wraps. It worked, until he spotted Murdock.

The lanky pilot tilted and teetered, held up solely by the guards' grip on his thin arms. Every breath seemed an effort. His chest was heaving and falling in an odd, unhealthy cadence. Murdock's head lolled forward as if it were too heavy for his exhausted muscles to support. Chin on his chest, eyes downcast, the captain mumbled something softly to himself before letting out another loud, groan of protest.

Face stared, not at his friend, but at a living corpse—a thing built of bone and skin, animated by some unnatural force.

Finishing his latest round of pained, non-coherent mutterings, the pilot looked up, his doleful brown eyes fixing on Face. For a moment, it was as if Murdock's muddled mind couldn't piece together what he was seeing. Then, as a spark of recognition flashed in his gaze, he opened his mouth and let loose a new, soul-shattering wail.

The guards held the pilot tight as he thrashed and convulsed like a man possessed. There was no contest though. The guards barely had to strain against the weakened man's wild scuffle. The one on the left gave a cruel smile as they started to drag a still struggling Murdock down the hall.

"_No, no, no_…" Those few words emerged amongst the captain's cries before it all became indistinguishable sobs and shrieks again.

As hard as Face tried, he couldn't maintain his courage—not with the pleading, terrified noises emanating from Murdock. He flinched as his guards suddenly pulled him forward, taking him in the same direction as the screaming pilot.

The wash of daylight blinded him as they made their way out of the building. He blinked, frantically trying to take in as many details of the outer yard as he could. Anything he could recall later might help them with an escape, and, at the very least, it focused his mind on something other than his fear and helplessness.

It was the stench that struck him first. They were still a fair distance from the newly constructed _quiz _shack, but he could smell it already—death. Without thinking, he locked his legs, forcing his captors to drag him forward. He couldn't go in. He knew if he did that he'd never come out.

There was no frustration in the NVA soldiers' expressions though as they continued to haul him along. Far from it—they merely laughed, adding further humiliation to Face's panic.

Ahead, Murdock disappeared into the shack, his nonsensical voice trailing into a rough jumble of wails. Fear swelling again, Face attempted to yank loose from his guards, but it was to no avail.

As they neared the shack, he tried not to retch as the sickly sweet odor of rotting flesh filled his lungs. The air was thick with fat, black flies; their low, lazy buzz filling the gaps between Murdock's screams.

Just outside the sinister little building, Face's guards halted. Their low whispers suggesting that they too had no love of the structure. Snippets of their conversation, not meant for Face, still reached him. _Evil_—they murmured the word, agreeing that it was best not to enter that house of death.

Face would have thought it an act, if he hadn't heard the honesty in their voices. He trembled freely now, unconcerned any longer about hiding his fear. It didn't matter what the guards thought, not anymore.

The door swung open, but Face could make out nothing in the dark room inside. Hesitantly, he leaned forward, hoping for a peek, but then his guards shoved him, sending him flailing through the door. For a split second no hands held him—he was free andthen he wasn't.

As the new set of guards within the shack snagged hold of him, the door slammed shut. Face could hear Murdock whimpering in the corner, and he scanned around, finally finding the pilot strapped down to a large wooden chair. His wrists, ankles, chest and head were all secured with thick leather bands. Eyes squeezed shut, chin quivering, Murdock had fat, glistening tears running down his cheeks, carving white streaks through the dirt and grime.

Turning his attention quickly away from the pilot, before he lost what was left of his nerve, Face continued to scan the room, spotting another chair—one that was surely to be his, but…

He stared at the motionless form in the chair. He hadn't thought anyone was there at first, and, truthfully, no one was—not anymore. For a long moment, Face forgot how to breathe. When his body finally remembered how, the shallow draws of air he took in seemed to rush out too quickly. Time felt as if it slowed as he watched a few plump flies crawl across the bloated flesh.

One of the guards moved forward, loosening the straps holding the corpse in place. Face watched in horror, not wanting to believe, not wanting to accept that the mangled remains in the chair had once been Dom.

_The carousing, womanizing son-of a bitch that Face had learned to admire, to actually like.._.

The skin had been flayed back from Dom's arms, so that it was a bloody mess of exposed flesh and muscle. One ear was gone completely while the other was crusted with dried blood.

_The only one in Vietnam who'd ever cheated and won against Face at cards… _

Burn marks pocked Dom's ghastly pale skin, and, as the guard shifted him out of the chair, his right eye, dangling from its socket, swung limply back and forth.

_One of the few men Face considered a friend…_

With one great heave, the guard flung the body onto the floor where two other disfigured, decayed bodies lay. An ARVN soldier and...Face squinted...finally recognizing the other bloated corpse as Murdock's crew chief, Olsen.

Face tried to swallow but found his mouth too dry to do so. How much had Dom been alive for? When had he finally died? How long had they tortured him?

The questions running through his head stopped as he felt the guards pulling him forward toward the empty chair. Something deep inside him completely snapped. He fought like he'd never fought before. Panting for breath, foamy saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, he used every ounce of strength he had and still he ended up in the blood stained chair, strapped down just as tightly as Murdock was.

Unable to move, he stared across the room at the pilot. Murdock still had his eyes squeezed shut, but his lips were moving. The room became just quiet enough that Face could make out the whispered words, "_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"_

The door opened again and harsh light flooded the room, silhouetting the two figures that entered. Before Face's eyes could adjust, the door slammed shut. In the sudden gloom, two men took shape from the shadows. One was recognizable, but the other was very much an unknown factor.

Face knew Colonel Lo from previous interrogations. The man was a sadist, plain and simple. As General Chow's right hand man in the camp, Lo had plenty of opportunities to indulge and perfect his passion for the suffering of others. Lo barely gave Murdock a passing glance before settling his dark, predatory gaze on Face. Eyes glistening with joy, the colonel smiled his approval.

The other man looked at neither prisoner. Bent and hunched with age, the older Vietnamese man clutched a soft leather bundle in his gnarled, twisted hands. He stared at the ground as he shuffled closer to Face. Mouth pursed, he set his load down on a rickety table and carefully unfolded the bundle, revealing an array of bamboo and metal tools.

"This…" Lo said, gesturing at the old man. "…is Bao. He was a doctor and now…" Lo paused to glance over at the pile of bodies. "We use his expertise here. He is _very _good at what he does…"

Bao didn't glance up. He gave no notice of the words spoken about him. The old man kept his solemn gaze fixed on his tools of his trade as he carefully slid each from its place in the bag, examined it and then set it gently to the side. Unlike with Lo and the guards, there was no dark stain of anger or resentment clouding his actions. He wasn't there for spite, entertainment or revenge. This was a job—a task he was _required _to do.

Face's breath was coming short and rapid as his gaze drifted over to the _doctor_, then the bodies on the floor. All of that carnage was the work of this one, frail old man? Face tried to pull at his straps again, but they held tight. Somehow he didn't think that the doctor was in the business of saving life so much as agonizingly prolonging it, pushing it to and then past the limits of human endurance.

He peered over at the thin figure in the other chair. One glance and it was clear to Face that, whatever was going to happen, Murdock had seen it before. Already ghostly pale, the man's filthy, papery skin went a shade of white that Face had only ever seen on corpses. With the little slack his restrains gave him, Murdock tilted his head back and forth as his whispered repetition of apologies continuing.

Face let his eyes slid shut, trying to find a place inside himself to hole up in. Bravado had long since left him. Now it was simply a matter of how long his body could hold out. He hoped to God it wasn't as long as Dom had lasted.

Murdock's last mumbled 'sorry' faded off, replaced by the pained sound of sharp breaths. _How many times had he watched this?_ The question sickened Face even more. He didn't really want to know the answer…


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen **

Sitting, standing, pacing, nothing fed that raging need for action. Fists balled, fingernails biting into his palms, BA eyed the door again. He'd failed—plain and simple. Faceman was gone, and BA wasn't so sure he was coming back this time. That was _his _fault. Why hadn't he done more? Why hadn't he stopped them from taking him?

He lashed out, fist hitting stone, but, somehow, that sting of bleeding knuckles brought relief.

"Aww, come on," Callaghan hissed, sitting up. "Now I'm gonna have to patch that up, aren't I? You ever think about how much work you make for me, man?" He winced as he wobbled to his feet. "Shit, like the guards don't give me enough to keep up with." He'd already given BA's beaten body a once over after Face was taken. Not like BA had a choice in the matter. Little man hurried over before he could even catch his breath let alone shake off whatever help Cal was doling out.

BA glanced over at the medic. The man still looked like hell from his last excursion out of the cell. The guards had done a number on him. Cal had taken the beating BA should've. Another failure, one more person he'd let down.

BA's fist hit the wall again—the feel of muscle and stone colliding was real. The warm blood on his knuckles was a reminder that he was still alive, that he could still hurt. If he could hurt, then he could cause pain, and, right now, that idea made him feel good, gave him a purpose and direction.

"Goddamn it, BA..." Whatever else Cal was gonna say was lost amid a sharp intake of breath as he took a lone step forward and halted.

"Sit down, fool!" The words were harsh, snarled out as he turned on the battered man. "Don't need ta be picking up your scrawny ass again." _How the hell was he even moving? _Charlie had taken extra time to show how unhappy they were with Cal's token protest.

_At least they brought him back. Never gonna see Dom, Murdock or Face again. They're probably all dead and you just watched them go_...

"Well..." Callaghan was panting for breath, but he somehow managed to keep an amused tinge to his tone. "...stop punching walls like a bona fide shithead and I'll sit down." He glanced up, his one good eye glossy with pain, the other was still swollen shut. "How's that sound?"

"How 'bout you stop actin' like havin' Charlie kick you black and blue is good." BA scowled as he reached for what was left of the water Lin had snuck them. "Next time keep it in your pants." The team needed a medic a hell of a lot more than they currently need a mechanic.

BA held up the water to Cal. The man needed a drink and then sleep. It was the only place any of them could hide anymore.

Callaghan chuckled. "What, getting repeatedly kicked in the nuts isn't fun? Why am I _just_ learning this? There are so many life lessons that would've been so valuable if you'd just taught me earlier on. Seriously, where have you been all my life?" He swayed a little, holding a hand out to gain some support from the wall. "And I'm _not _thirsty..."

All of the dark anger came back in a flash, flooding through BA. No one listened. "Didn't ask if you was thirsty."

"I'm _not _thirsty..." Callaghan repeated, eye fixed on BA, that light, joking humor gone.

BA put the water down and turned away. Cal was just as stubborn as Face. So, if he wanted to get dehydrated and sick, it wasn't like BA could stop him. Hell, he hadn't been able to do shit to help anyone in a long time.

"Just..." The word trailed off, Callaghan pausing to take in a deep breath. "...give me a bit still. I'll drink, later."

Glancing back, BA watched as Callaghan closed his eye for a moment, seemingly gathering what strength he could. Looking back to BA, he plastered another sad smile into place.

"How about you let me look at those fists?"

"Later." BA wasn't playing no more games. Cal was hurt worse than him. BA could take care of himself. He was probably the last of his team that could claim that honor. For a second, he let his mind play over how good it would feel to snap the necks of the guards, take back the guns, take back his team, the power—be something useful for a while.

Momma and the preachers would tell him thinkin' that was a sin. God forgive him, but he didn't care what they thought. He knew to his core he could kill ever one of those little bastards and never think twice about it.

BA was pulled from his thoughts by slow movement. It was Callaghan taking an awkward step forward. His gait was too wide, hampered by his injuries. Only two steps in, he stopped and swayed.

"You just keep pouting about how screwed we are but let me do my job, ok?" Deep creases etched Callaghan's brow, his face growing an angry shade of red. "Because I can tell you right now that I'm not giving up. I am _never _giving up. Until I'm dead, my job is to make sure all your sorry asses are stitched, bandaged and free of infection. So, I'm gonna have a look at those hands and make sure you didn't break any of your goddamn knuckles because I really need you in top condition so you can beat the ever lovin' shit out of some people and we can get the hell outta here..." He paused, sucking in another trembling breath. "..._all _of us."

Every damn inch of BA wanted to grab Callaghan and beat him into a bloody pulp, but Charlie had already done that. The fool never knew when to shut up, when to stop.

Didn't matter what the puffed up, little rooster needed to squawk about, he wasn't coming near BA. "Back off," he growled, tossing a scowl the man's way.

And for the first time ever, Callaghan seemed to heed BA's warning. The medic leaned against the wall, slowly slinking downward. The anger was gone as his gaze went distant, as if he was watching some far off scene unfold before him. When he spoke again, all the tension had eased from his voice. "You know that old jeep you worked on back at base, the one no one said would run again? But, sure as shit, you got her purring."

BA knew what he was talking about. He'd spent hours under that jeep, tearing every bit of her apart, knowing that under all the dirt and dents was a machine that was built to run the wheels off the frame. All you had to do was figure out what she needed. It had taken him three weeks of spending every spare second and cent he had, but he did it. He'd made her sing. The memories of how she sounded when he turned the key and she flared to life had him looking at Cal, wondering why he was talkin' about that.

Callaghan smiled softly. "A single night and a few drunken officers swiping her for a joy ride was all it took, wasn't it? One ride that ended a little too abruptly?"

"I nearly broke a major's jaw over that." One look at what they'd done to her, how they were laughing about walking away without a scratch, and BA had decked the man with the biggest smirk and the most amount of gold and silver on his uniform. He spent twenty-four hours in the brig before Hannibal bailed him out. It was worth every damn second.

"And after all that..." Callaghan chuckled. "You fixed her all over again." There was a sudden stillness, a somberness that came over the medic. "But, I can't always do that with people. After a point, I can't keep rebuilding them. All I can do is make sure they are patched up as well as I can before they have a chance to fall apart for good. That's it."

"Yeah, no shit." There was no sting in his words. He knew why Callaghan did what he did, but, for as much as he could relate, there was one fact Cal hadn't considered. "Who gonna put you back together?"

Callaghan's gaze shifted back to BA, a tight smile in place. "Nothing can stop me, BA. I'm like a cockroach. I'll just keep coming back...no matter what."

The thing that really got BA was that he knew that, deep down inside, Callaghan believed that. What he lacked in size, he made up for in sense of invulnerability and pure stubborn. He knew all about how quick and easy death came in Vietnam, but Cal was one of those types who would keep moving long after he should've been dead, because nobody, not even pain and death would tell him what to do.

"I've killed plenty of cockroaches," BA answered.

Again there was a chuckle from Callaghan. "Of course, little bastards can outlast a nuke but BA can do them in." He shifted, giving a hissed breath as he stretched his legs out. "I'd give anything to take one good piss...on a guard or not. I don't care. I just want an empty bladder again."

There was nothing BA could say to that. Having Charlie tap dance on your nuts 'til you couldn't take a piss was a level of pain BA couldn't imagine. And, there wasn't a damn thing BA could do to help. Ice, medicine, doctors were all a world away.

Still, Callaghan was talking like he'd take another try at the guards. Knowing the cocky little man as well as he did, BA didn't doubt for a second. He'd do that, 'til they took him away and like the others, 'til he never came back. There was no way BA could let that happen. Too much depended on Cal.

Hannibal had an escape plan cooked up, and knowing how cold and twisty that man's mind got, they were gonna need all the help they could get. That meant able bodied people, and those were getting hard to come by. All the more reason BA was gonna have to keep Cal safe—from both the enemy and himself.

Moving around to face Cal, BA made sure to look him in the eye.

"Gotta keep you in one piece. Gonna need your sorry skills to fix us up." BA held his bleeding hand up close to Callaghan's nose, hoping he'd be able see it. "Get movin'. Ain't gonna sit here waiting while you playin' around."

He wasn't good with words and it wasn't like Hallmark made a '_Sorry you're a POW card_.' But BA did know what being useful could do for a soul.

Callaghan reached up slowly, taking one of BA's hands and working his fingers over the knuckles, feeling the bone beneath the flesh. "Nothing broken...looks like you'll be good to punch another day." He moved on to the next set of knuckles, keeping the exam simple. When he was finished, he let his hands drop away slowly, coming to a heavy rest at his sides. He glanced down, no longer staring up at BA. His next word was mumbled, faint. "_Thanks_..."

There'd never be anything in BA's life that would give him the ability to express what that one quiet word meant to him. Something inside him clicked. He'd done something that mattered.

BA didn't bother with words, they'd only muddy up a situation he didn't fully understand. Instead, he put his hand on Cal's shoulder, one of the few places he wasn't black and blue or bloody. Giving the smaller man a pat, BA knew in his heart that he'd keep the little shit safe, even if he had to shove a sock in his mouth and sit on him. Cal was needed and BA would keep him whole or die trying. Either way, he had a goal.


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen **

It was the heavy sigh that escaped from Bao that finally caused Face to open his eyes.

Picking up a long, slender, pointed piece of hardened bamboo from his bag, Bao frowned and tipped his head toward Lo. The old man's words were soft, gentle and so low that not even Face could hear them. Bao held up the bamboo tool for Lo to inspect, speaking as he slowly rotated it in his hand.

Face didn't want to see, to let his mind wander with what the tool could do to him or piece together what it had done on Dom. Seeing the man dead had seemed surreal. Death was common here, so why did it still hurt so much?

Memories of their last night in Da Nang surfaced in Face's head. Piss flavored beer, angry Marines, and the nurse—what was her name again? He couldn't remember. Christ, that felt so long ago.

He finally managed to calm his breathing a bit. This was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it—_nothing_. Accepting that, somehow, seemed to be the key. He looked over at Murdock and found those brown listless eyes staring back at him.

"He says…" Lo offered, beaming from ear to ear. "…that he will first take your hearing with this tool. It means you will scream louder later without even knowing it." He turned his malicious smile toward Murdock. "Isn't that right? Don't they scream louder when they cannot hear themselves?"

For a split second something flickered in the pilot's dead, glossy eyes, and, like a trace bullet, it flared through the dim room. But, before Face could think about it, Murdock had closed his eyes, locking away that startling mixture of hate, determination, horror and sorrow.

Looking away from Murdock, Face fixed his gaze forward on some invisible point, staring into nothingness. Fear was nothing to be ashamed of here—he knew that. It had become a way of life. Still, perhaps he'd be better off not being able to hear how those screams betrayed his weakness.

Lo laughed, a cold unnatural sound, turning to Face. "You know your friend could make this all stop...but I bet he won't. He didn't for the rest."

Murdock's eyes popped back open, concern flooding his face upon hearing that dig from Lo.

"_Good _for him…" Face's response was low, throaty and came out before he could really think it over. It was taunting, inciting Lo to do his worst.

There was a new, silent, clear message in the Murdock's stare, one which made Face rethink his tactics. The message was simple—_don't_.

Dry and rusty from all the screaming, Murdock's words croaked out too quickly as he addressed Lo. "What do you want?"

Whatever prior glee that had existed in Lo's expression doubled at the resigned, desperate tone in Murdock's voice. Spinning around, he crouched down next to the pilot. "Names, places...we know you've worked for your _Agency_—the CIA. A little information on what you know and this can all end."

Face felt his eyes narrow at that.

_Agency? _Murdock hadn't worked for the agency, not that Face knew of, but it would explain why General Chow had killed so many for answers from one man.

There was a long, heavy pause. The silence was suffocating. Finally, Murdock spoke again, his voice shaky with exhaustion, dehydration and helplessness. "I'm not with any Agency. I'm just a pilot."

There was a hint of truth in the statement, Face could sense it, but there was defeat as well. It probably didn't help that while their life and death drama played out, Bao stood in place, fiddling with his instruments, making a show of them, but doing no more than that. Lo had trained his man well in intimidation tactics.

Murdock continued, ignoring Face, looking at Lo instead. "Don't take this the wrong way, _Sunshine_, but I don't give a shit about Vietnam—never have. I just joined the army because I wanted to fly. It's not my fault if some NVA asshole of a colonel can't understand that."

The guard standing nearest Murdock stirred slightly, but after a stern look from Lo, he settled back.

Murdock was talking faster now, the edge in his voice and speed making it clear he wanted Lo focused solely on him. "I don't know how to get it through that thick, rock filled skull of yours that I'm _not_…"

Lo cut him off quickly. "One of my men saw you in the jungle not far from Dong Xoai. He traveled all the way back here, visiting all the camps, watching, waiting patiently to see if, in the off chance, you would end up here..." The colonel paused, a smug smile seeping across his face. "…and you did."

At the mention of Dong Xoai, Murdock tensed, but he still managed to come up with a reply. "In the middle of gunfire, rotor wash and explosions, one of your eagle eyed lackeys just happened to see a pilot who he assumed worked for the CIA—and it just happens to be the one man you take prisoner later, isn't that one hell of a stretch?"

Lo laughed. "It was merely good fortune for us—less so for you. My man, my _trusted _man, saw you take the dog-tags from the pile of dead US soldiers in the jungle, but, of all of them, the only one you thoroughly searched was the one who held the paperwork for your CIA. Too bad my man had already found all those papers. They've come in quite handy. And, Captain, I've had further sources do some additional confirmation on your background as well." Lo rose from his crouch and stretched. "Even if you don't work directly for the Agency, you've worked _with _them. You know things."

And, even as his mind was wracked with the dread of what was to come, Face still couldn't help but feel that twist of disappointment over hearing Murdock had links with the Agency. He should've known. He should've kept his guards up, but he hadn't. He had tried, but Murdock just plowed through them with a laugh.

But, in retrospect, it hardly mattered now, did it? Not with death looming so close.

Face continued to watch the other men silently. There was no point in trying to take the attention off of the pilot. He was too damn good at making himself the center of attention and a pain in the ass. Plus, there was a small part of Face that was thankful for whatever short reprieve Murdock was giving him. All too soon the pain would start.

Murdock sighed. "Listen up fathead, I don't know anything…"

"You_ will_ give us information, or your friend will suffer and then _slowly _die. Now..." Lo said, "I think this would go better if we gave you a two a moment." He paused to gesture at Bao and the guards, watching with a keen sense of satisfaction as they shuffled out of the room at his silent command. "We will be right outside. You have..." He smiled. "...five minutes." And with that he turned and exited the shack.

As soon as the door shut, all of the animation Murdock had shown in his dance of words with Lo was gone. He was no more than a shell of a man weighed down with shame.

For a long moment Face was quiet, unsure of what to say. Finally, he spoke. "Is that all they think they know? You're Agency and you searched another agent when we were in that firefight?"

Murdock nodded, his reply nothing more than a soft whisper. "Yeah, that's all they know…" His sad gaze drifted to what was left of Dom. "That's all it took to get them killed..." The last part seemed more to himself than to Face.

Face thought about that for the slightest of seconds. "It's standard operation procedure to search bodies. You just didn't have time to search them all, right?" Face was almost begging for this to make sense in the way he wanted it to—not so that he'd believe it himself, because he didn't, but so that they could sell the story to Colonel Lo.

Slowly, Murdock looked up. His voice was still so quiet, so soft. "I've never lied to you Face, not about the important things."

Even if Face hadn't understood what Murdock was implying, the look in his eyes alone made it clear. Murdock knew more—a lot more—but he could never tell. Like Dom, Face was going to be tortured to death while Murdock was forced to watch, unable to speak the words that would save his life and simultaneously condemn them all.

Face kept his voice deadly calm as he stared back at the captain, willing his eyes to explain what he didn't have time to. "That wasn't what I was questioning, Murdock. I'm asking if you think they'd buy it as a cover 'cause we both know what flat out denial is going to get us."

But before Murdock could answer, the door swung inward. The colonel gave a crooked smile as Face's gaze darted in his direction. Slowly, Lo strode back in, Bao and the two guards following close behind him.

"Did you have a nice talk?" Lo asked, completely ignoring Face, his attention on Murdock. "Did your friend do a good job of pleading for his life?"

Bao moved close to Face, plucking a tool from the table and shifting anxiously beside the prisoner. Face's eyes followed that tool, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin despite the sweltering jungle air.

Murdock shook his head again "No." That sad, defeated voice made it even harder for Face to slip away inside himself.

"I'm sorry to hear that..." Lo sounded anything but sorry as his smile slipped away, his cold gaze pointedly going to Face.

Panic was overloading Face's senses now, running through his veins, turning his blood to ice. The inhuman pain would start soon. He glanced again at the bodies.

_Oh God, please no… _Had those words stayed inside? He wasn't sure.

After a quick nod from the colonel, Bao leaned forward, one hand taking hold of Face's cheek—the touch was soft, surprising gentle. As Face stared up at the old man, he caught a haunted glimpse of apology.

Frantic not to focus on the present, Face desperately turned inward, latching on to the first memory he could.

_He was seven and at St. Mary's. Crying fat tears into the scratchy wool blanket he'd pulled over his head, he tried to block out the monsters that nighttime, memories and the imagination of a child had conjured up._

_He wasn't expecting Sister Mara to find him or for the normally stern and austere Nun to give him a small smile, offer him a hand and sweep him out of the dormitory to the small library._

_She had been quick to find her desired book and set it before him. _

Suddenly, Face felt the light tickle of the bamboo as it started to enter his ear canal.

_"Do you know who this is?" Mara asked in her hushed, steady voice as they stared down at a picture of a man on one of the yellow, dog-eared pages. She continued only after he softly shook his head. This is Saint Jude—a very important and special man to anyone who feels very alone and very afraid."_

_That had his complete attention. He was well acquainted with both of those things. Sister Mara knelt down and looked him in the eyes._

Face was shaking, knuckles white with fear and anticipated pain. He squeezed his eyes closed as he tried instinctively to move away from the intrusion and got nowhere. Soon the pain would come…

_"When you are in your darkest hours, alone, without hope, remember him. Say this prayer…" Her leathery finger tapped the words in fancy script under the man. "Open your heart and pray for intercession, and you will never be truly alone."_

Memories and fear colliding, Face found that prayer echoing through his head. Unbidden and unintended some of it escaped his lips.

"Most holy apostle Saint Jude, Patron Saint of lost and hopeless causes, things most despaired of…" Time had lost some of the words, but Face still held on to the ones that mattered, the ones that meant something. "Pray for me, I am so lost and alone" His last words were no more than a hoarse whisper as the bamboo was sliding along, scraping the fine hairs in his ear canal, making him dizzy.

"Stop! Jesus Christ, stop. I'll talk." Murdock's words were a panicked stream, with barely a pause for a breath. "I'll tell you everything, but you have to protect me! He'll kill me!"

Bao hesitated, looking to Lo—who motioned for him to halt. Face felt the bamboo slowly pull away, having done no damage...yet.

Face's eyes shot open, his relief giving way to anger, disbelief. "Don't you say a damn word more, Murdock!" He couldn't let the pilot break, not for him, not if what he knew was that important.

There was a wild, trapped look in Murdock's eyes as he glared at Face. "Shut Up! You don't know what they're going to do to us…" It was hard not to miss that sting, that jealous zest to be naively in the dark once again.

The pilot's frantic, pleading eyes turned back to Lo. "I couldn't say anything. _He_…" Murdock paused to let his gaze flicker over to the guard closest to him. "…would've killed me the second you turned your back!"

Lo glanced from the pilot to the guard and back again, looking unsure of how to react to the situation.

Murdock frantically started pulling at his straps, his voice tinged with hysteria. "Your man, he's a spy, he's one of us... get his gun ...don't let him near me!"

The guard scowled over at Murdock, profusely voicing his denial of the accusation in a quick, heated string of Vietnamese, but the indecision in Lo's gaze was not lost on the guard, who took a quick, threatening step closer to the raving pilot.

In the back of his confused mind, Face recognized the fast talking for the bluff that it was. The guard wasn't in on anything. He'd seen the hatred plastered in the man's expression when he sneered down at his beaten, weak American prisoners. There was no way this guy was working for the US.

"Ask him!" Murdock shrieked. "Ask him where the hell he went two months ago! He's been working with us since last February…I swear it!"

Desperate, the guard glanced to his comrade but found the man silent, staring back with wide, fearful eyes.

Murdock was quick to pipe up again. "Don't tell me you haven't thought he was odd—that you didn't suspect…"

The guard spun around, his tone edging into a murderous rage as he screamed in Vietnamese for Murdock to shut up. The man was gripping his rifle tight, holding it at the ready.

None of the guard's posturing fazed Murdock though. If anything, it feed him, as he kept up his tirade. "Keep him away from me! He sold you out for $350 bucks and a promise of safe passage to the U.S. for his sister—the one he never talks about"

In a flash, the guard raised his rifle and brought it down hard into Murdock's face. Still the pilot went on. Lo, Bao and the other guard were all frozen in place, observing in morbid fascination as the scene played out. Even Face found himself struck horrifyingly mute as he watched.

Choking out each breath, spraying droplets of blood with each word, the pilot continued to ramble as the blows came. "Stop him…he doesn't want you to know the truth…"

Again, the rifle butt came down with another hard strike—the sound of metal on flesh was loud, painful even to hear.

"He's the reason you're missing rations and equipment." Murdock sputtered, his words slurring slightly. "W-why your r-rice went bad and why the b-bombs are getting closer…"

Unable to endure any more of the beating, Face finally found his voice again. "Murdock! Goddamn it, shut up!"

But it was clear the pilot had no intention of stopping.

Murdock had to push the next words out in a low gasp "He's...he's been meeting with an agent code named '_Wombat_' every second Tuesday after the full moon, two klicks west of here."

It was full crap…Face knew it, and suddenly, with complete clarity, he knew why he was doing it. Murdock was doing it for him.

The captain's gaze shifted to Face. Already the swelling was setting in, making it hard for him to ease into his patented, enigmatic grin, but he did. Trails of blood flowed from his nose down his chin and his forehead was a mess of sweat-damp hair and congealing globs of crimson. But those eyes held no pain, only a stubborn glee. Face was safe for now. Murdock had won.

Grin fading, Murdock turned back to Lo, pushing further. It hit Face hard—the man wasn't intending to stop. He was going to win by taking himself out of the game. "The _Wombat _says your man is gunning to have you assassinated. He thought you were too smart to keep buying his lies"

Like he'd wanted, Murdock found the guard's final breaking point. Full fury unleashed, the guard landed repeated blows, not stopping until well after Murdock was no longer moving, slumped in his chair, eyes closed, face unrecognizable under the open gashes and thick layer of oozing blood.

Breathing hard, the guard stared wide-eyed and shaking at the still form before turning to face Lo. His voice was low, anxious as he professed his innocence. His words were hard to hear over the screaming. Jesus Christ, couldn't someone stop that?

Straining against his bonds, it took Face a moment to realize that he was the one screaming. How long had he been doing that? He didn't know or really care.

"MURDOCK!"

The name rolled out of his mouth repeatedly as he stared at the mess that was his friend. How could he have lived through that? Was he dead? He had to be dead. Face choked back a sob, hollering the pilot's name again, waiting for any sort of response.

Lo ignored Face's outburst, focused on his guard. Their conversation was quick, quiet and almost complete by the time Face could realize he should attempt to eavesdrop on the two.

From what little Face could hear, he could only translate a small portion. Lo hadn't believed what Murdock said and he chided the guard for over-reacting, but the colonel didn't seem quite as upset over the loss as he should've been. His frustration with Murdock's unwillingness to talk must've come to a boiling point. Lo had let this happen. Hell, he probably wanted it to happen.

Lo's only concern, after all was said and done, was that General Chow would not be happy that his '_special_' prisoner had been gravely injured. It seemed that none of them, Lo especially, wished to take the blame for the CIA dog dying before they got his secrets.

Strength waning, Face drew in a ragged breath. _What had Murdock done? Why?_ A warm tear slid down his cheek, but he could do nothing to hide it. _For me, he did it for me._

It wasn't until the guards started unstrapping Murdock from his chair that Face saw the pilot's chest weakly rise and fall with each shallow breath. Murdock was alive. Face sucked in a deep breath, unaware he'd been holding it, as the guards dragged the limp pilot out of the shack.

With a wide grin, Lo set his gaze on Face. "We will put your _friend_ in your cell with you. He is injured badly. It would be a shame if he didn't make it through the night, but if he survives, you both will be brought back here to finish what we've started. " That smile hardened as Lo made his point. _"And _if he dies...well...I guess we won't." The hint wasn't subtle.

Face gathered up what little saliva he could and spit at Lo, missing his mark by a long shot. Still, his sentiment was clear.

Lo chuckled, his firm hand reaching out, giving Face an uncomfortably fatherly pat on the head. The man was more amused with the situation than Face felt he should've been, more than he had a right to be.

"In the morning, we will see what choice you've really made." He stared at his prisoner for another long moment, then leaned in close and whispered in Face's ear, "If he's alive in the morning, I can and will make you hurt in ways that will have you begging for the beauty of death." Standing up Lo gave him a grim smirk, then turned and left.

Alone, Face squeezed his eyes shut. He knew the guards would return for him, but he used this rare moment of solitude to send another new, silent prayer to St. Jude for both himself _and _Murdock.


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

The briefing room was quiet, not peaceful—nothing in the camp was that—but it gave Lo a moment of solitude, some time to contemplate what had happened and what would soon befall him for his carelessness.

He'd had the opportunity and the power to stop the beating, but he hadn't. Chow wouldn't overlook that. The General would demand answers.

What could he say to that? That he wanted the pilot to die? That he wanted to watch it happen? Staring at the dark wood grain of the table before him, Lo frowned.

Few had held out so long, had made him work so hard, and he could see no end in sight. The joy of the work, of causing his enemy pain was starting to wane. There would be no reward, no secrets revealed and no triumph. Lo could see that, and every day the man refused to talk only added to his mounting frustration, to his growing sense of failure.

The new toys, the men he'd slowly and painfully had the life bled from in front of the pilot had been something new, but even their novelty had worn off. Murdock would not talk, no matter how much he suffered physically _or _mentally.

So, with veiled glee, Lo had watched the American pilot's brutal beating, as the guard became the solution to this problem that Lo wasn't able to achieve on his own. Yes, he had _let _that happen. That was the simple truth.

Of course, that's not what he wanted to tell Chow.

Unfortunately for him, he was still piecing out what to tell the General when he felt the air in the room grow heavy and stale. He could feel a heated gaze settle on him, and tension cramped his muscles as he kept his eyes downcast, trained on the table before him. Without looking up, he knew Chow was in the room. He could sense that smothering presence.

"What happened?" Anger hinged in every syllable, Chow hid none of the accusation from his tone.

Lo clenched his jaw, unsure if he was ready for this confrontation. Everything—his career, his life— was balanced precariously on what he said and did next.

Chow moved closer, coming to a halt directly in front of him. "Why is _my _prisoner, the man I specifically said not to injure, laying bloody and unconscious in a cell?" His rage overtaking him, spittle sprayed out with his next words. "_WHY IS THAT_?"

Remaining outwardly indifferent, Lo didn't flinch. Inside he may have been cringing, but he held that hidden away. Slowly, he looked up into those dark, cold eyes staring down at him. He would offer no hint of fear. Doing so would only feed into Chow's power, his keen sense of targeting the weak, the ones ripe for punishment.

"He became difficult."

"Strapped to a chair?" Chow mocked. "I _doubt _that."

Yes, that had been a feeble argument. Lo chided himself mentally, but another moment of pause still found him with no good answer to the question.

"He provoked one of the guards." That was a card Lo hadn't wanted to play, but it was the truth. "He made false accusations. Our time was being wasted on..."

Chow was quick to cut him off. "What_ accusations_?"

A split second decision had Lo replying. "False ones. That's all you need to know." He was entering dangerous territory. Perhaps it was a misstep on his part, but he wouldn't sell out one of his trusted men so easily. Unlike Chow, he had far more sympathy for the plight of his fellow countryman—especially those who had served him so well.

"In my camp…" Chow was standing stock still, arms rigid at his sides, hands balled into tight fists. "…I need to know _everything." _Something in his expression had Lo even more on edge. He'd been walking too fine a line with the General. It was time change tactics, start swaying to the man's ire.

"There is no truth in it, but the prisoner accused our guard, Quan, of being a spy for the Americans. I assure you, though, he is quite loyal." Even the whisper of being a spy could ruin a man, rob him of his life. Lo had hoped to save Quan from that fate, but the odds were not in his favor.

Chow eyed him carefully. "I see."

It was pointless. He could profess Quan's innocence as much as his voice would allow, but, in the end, it would come down to Chow's whims—which was a shame. Quan was a model soldier. Lo had hand chosen him for the interrogations. He knew the guard was trustworthy, that he would leak nothing that was said. It was unfortunate that the prisoner had condemned him so.

"_You_ are lucky the pilot did not die." There was far too much threat laced in Chow's voice.

Lo let out a light sigh of a breath. "I know." For as much as he wanted to see the man die, he was truly lucky he hadn't. "In a couple of days he'll be well enough to be brought to the interrogations again and I can…"

Chow leaned forward, slamming a fist down on the table. "_No!_ There will be no more questioning by _you_."

It was a mere moment, that span of time that pinned Lo under Chow's vehement stare, but it was long enough to run his blood cold. He knew that look—it was one that conveyed a hunger for retribution, for inflicting pain.

Chow straightened, rising to his full height, and pursed his lips. It was clear that he was daring Lo argue, to push the matter further, but that would've been a fool's move.

Dipping his head forward, Lo dropped his gaze, giving Chow the lowly show of obedience he surely desired.

Watching his colonel, Chow's expression relaxed but was still far from pleased. "I will deal with Captain Murdock and his group as I see fit. You may see to the new batch of prisoners coming in."

"Yes, sir."

Turning away, Chow took one slow stride before stopping again. "This man of ours that was accused of being a spy…" He glanced back at Lo, the faintest of pleasures burning in his eyes. "What do we know about him?"

"Quan?" Lo frowned. It would not bode well for the man if Chow was still holding onto that false information. "He has served us well since…"

Chow cut Lo off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "That doesn't matter. Have him brought to me within the hour. I'd like to _question_ him."

"Yes," Lo replied, and, feeling Chow's hard stare on him, he tacked on a weary, "Sir."

After a few seconds more of appraising hesitation, Chow turned and marched out of the room.

Alone, Lo sat in the room for a good fifteen minutes before getting to his feet. He'd stalled long enough, given the man enough time—time he wouldn't use.

If Quan were a less worthy soldier, he'd have fled, but Lo knew the man hadn't done so. Undoubtedly, he was at his post, waiting anxiously to hear Chow's verdict.

Lo shrugged. He could only hope that Quan died quickly, that Chow wouldn't call for Bao's expertise.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

_January 14, 1970_

Pain—hazy, mounting pain was all he felt. _Christ, what had happened? _Eyes closed, still partially swimming in a muted world of dreams and reality, Murdock tried to remember, but there was only a dark expanse, a void.

Sucking in another breath, he held the air down, forcing his burning lungs to work. Every second he ebbed closer to full consciousness the pain grew. A part of him fought to keep that at bay, but he also wanted to wake, to feel the pain, to know what had happened. He needed answers.

A soft voice, a gentle touch let him know someone was near._ Who? _He tried to ask, but only a muffled groan sounded.

Again, that voice came and he felt something being pressed to his lips. Slowly, the trickle of liquid eased down his throat. It tasted of blood. No, his mouth tasted of blood. Still, he drank gratefully, swallowing and sputtering, grieved when the cup was drawn away.

He tilted his head in the direction it had come from. "M-more..." The word had been hard to form, harder than he thought it would.

"Just rest..." That voice, he knew that voice. _Callaghan? Yeah, that's who it was._

"Fool don't look good."

_BA? What was happening? _He frowned, willing himself to move, to speak, but nothing happened.

"Well, _shit, _how's he supposed to look after getting his head beaten in?"

Recognizing Face's voice, Murdock felt a new, warm pain as his brow creased, eyebrows knitting together. _Head beaten in? _That couldn't be good. Again he tried to speak, but only the grunted noises of what sounded like a wounded animal came out.

"Hey, buddy..."His tone softening, Face must've eased closer to where Murdock lay, his voice sounding nearer. "...it's ok. We're here. Nothing is gonna happen. It's gonna be alright, ok?"

That much reassurance, that much concern told Murdock otherwise. It was _not _going to be ok.

He managed to get his fingers moving, pawing loosely, aimlessly at the dirt beneath him. That was a start, at least. He was slowly getting his body to do what he wanted.

"It'd be best if you just stayed still, ok?" Callaghan added. "Then we'll get you some more of that water. Sound good?"

Hell, for as good as the water sounded, it was still no dice. Something had happened, something important, and Murdock wanted to know what that was. He _needed _to know. That dark span of memory was too unsettling not to fill. With a little more effort, he moved his arm, swinging it up to lay across his chest.

Another low groan was all Murdock could muster as an answer. _Damn_. He was gonna have to do better than that if he wanted to find out what the hell was going on.

"Stop moving 'round, fool. Be still." There was something welcomed about BA's gruff voice. No matter how hard he tried, the big guy couldn't hide the fact that he cared.

"Yeah, listen to Nurse Baracus." Murdock didn't need his eyes open to know Cal's comment had earned him a fierce glare from BA.

He tilted his head, pain flaring as he did do, but he somehow still managed a weak smile. It was hard, but he finally forced his eyelids to lift just a hair. In the dim light, two dark, hazy figures stood before him, as a third one shifted back away. Pulling in a deep breath, he braced for the exertion the lone word would need. "F-face?"

One of the blobs near him moved, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm here, buddy."

Murdock adjusted his gaze, staring up at the man who claimed to be Face. "What..." He paused, swallowing down a lungful of air. "No...I-I..." _Why wasn't it coming out right?_ His thoughts kept scattering, words eluding him. "Where..." _Yep, that was one word down...just two more to go._"...are we?"

Silence—too much silence—had him regretting the question.

Face finally spoke up. "You're back in the main building." Murdock could hear him hesitating before continuing. "In our cell."

"You ain't alone no more." From anyone else it would've sounded harsh, but those were some of the gentlest words BA had ever spoken to him.

Murdock frowned. _Main building? Cell? What did that mean?_ Concentrating, he willed himself back to the last memory he could grasp. Maybe if he could bring that up...

_Leaves, trees whirling by, the sharp, persistent smell of fuel..._

"I...I crashed the chopper?"

"No." BA's voice was quiet, gruff and oddly tender all at once. "You got shot down. Ain't your fault. Now be quiet like Cal tell you too and have some more water."

Murdock pursed his lips, gaze darting to one figure and then another. He'd forgotten which was Callaghan, but he'd be damned if he was gonna let the medic shut him up with a cup of water—no matter how much he wanted it. He forced the next words out as quickly as he could. "B-but, where are we?"

"Aw hell, _Vietnam_, genius. Now drink before you start undoing all my hard work." Cal was just as rock headed as Murdock sometimes.

It was too hard to keep the fight up. Murdock parted his lips and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the liquid. His hazy string of memories slowly started coming back. The chopper went down, and they were captured. _Yes, that happened. _

Cal didn't miss a beat. The water was too warm, too dirty and yet, to Murdock, it still tasted like ice cold heaven.

He let it trickle down his throat, mind still wandering. The hike, Getz's death, their arrival at the camp all flooded back to him and then he hit a wall. Snippets of memories came, but they were disorganized, out of sequence and he had the unmistakable feeling that there were still large holes in what he could recall. Panicked, he took in a breath, forgetting the cup was still easing water to him.

He coughed, sputtering up the liquid, his eyes watering, head pounding.

Callaghan pulled the cup back. "Steady now... You're gonna be fine."

"No..." he choked out the word before he had time to rethink it. Blinking away the haze, he peered through the darkness over to the one man he knew would have answers. He didn't know how the hell he knew that, but he did. Panting, he stared up at Face. "What happened?" Face had been there...he'd seen. Murdock frowned, his mind reeling again, pulling away whatever memory was nearly in his grasp. _What did Face know?_

Murdock's vision had cleared enough that he could see that sad, tight smile working its way onto his friend's face. "You pissed off the wrong guard. That's all."

The half-truth hung heavily between them. He knew Face too well. There was more, so much more the man wasn't telling him.

"We just gotta make it four more days, fool." BA added. "Hannibal has a plan...thanks to you."

A new swell of panic hit Murdock as he tried to recall what he'd done to help, but again only a void greeted him. What if he'd been wrong? What if this plan failed? It'd be his fault. He was gasping for breath again, trying to work up some saliva in his mouth, trying to think of what he needed to ask.

"The plan will work." There was an authority to Face's voice that Murdock had never heard before. It was surprisingly comforting. "We're getting out of here. We just need to hold on a bit longer, ok, Murdock?"

"Ok..." The word came out instinctively, timidly. All he could do was let others take charge, look after him. He didn't much care for that fact, but it was there nonetheless. Still struggling with that notion, his eyelids started to droop, weighted by his fatigue. "Sorry...that I can't remember..."

Face gave a soft, sad chuckle. "Murdock, you nutbar, there's nothing to be sorry for. Just get some rest. We'll talk later."

"_Mm-hmm..._" That was as close to an answer as Murdock could muster. Well, that and the faint smile he forced. It couldn't have been more than a slight curl at the corners of his mouth, but it did the job.

"Good..." Face whispered, the warmth of his hand still on Murdock's shoulder. "We'll be right here the whole time. Just rest."

Sleep sounded so good but only to his body. Murdock's mind kept racing, kept searching for what was missing, but the memories were gone.

After half an hour or so, Face drew his hand away. Not stirring, not letting them know how much the loss of contact bothered him was hard, but Murdock held still. He kept his breathing even, calm.

"He sleeping?" BA asked.

Murdock could hear the soft crunch of sand as Face shifted next to him. "Yeah. I think so. Cal?"

"I can't imagine he's still up, but we'll have to wake him again several times through the night. If we can." Cal paused, letting out a low sigh. "He's definitely got a concussion. On the plus side though, besides the recent beating he took to the head, it doesn't look like the guards have been doing much to him physically during his interrogations lately. He's malnourished, dehydrated but most of his older wounds are healing."

"And the memory loss?" There was an edge to Face's question, something pressing. "Is it permanent?"

For a second, Murdock forgot to breath, to keep up the gentle rhythm the guys must've been listening to, because everyone went silent. He gave a faint smack of his lips and resumed the easy pace again. It was the best piece of acting he could muster, but he was sure they'd caught on to his ruse.

"It could be permanent." Callaghan replied quietly after about five minutes had passed. "Might be part of the concussion or..."

"_Or _what, fool?"

The silence had Murdock concentrating on his feigned slumber, not wanting to blow his cover. Hell, at this point it was a fight between keeping the act up and _not _actually falling asleep.

"_I _don't know what happened to him when the guards kept taking him..." The implication was clear in Callaghan's voice—someone in the cell did know. "...but whatever they did broke him down, and his not remembering what that was, well, it might just be a defense mechanism."

"He _did not _break," Face snapped. "He didn't!"

This time Murdock couldn't help it. He flinched at the raised voice but kept his eyes closed. The warm touch of Face's hand returned to his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "It's ok, Murdock...it's ok..."

He relaxed, glad for the contact. It was silly, childish, but he needed to know they were there. Even if he could hear them, he needed to know they were real. _Why was that?_

Time passed, and Face's hand remained in place, the guys staying silent. Just as the pull of sleep had almost won over Murdock, Callaghan spoke up again.

"Mentally, he broke. You saw him, Face. We all saw him." The medic paused for a sharp intake of breath. "That might happen again, if he remembers."

"He won't." Face sounded so damn tired.

"And if he does?" BA asked. "The man wasn't right in the head, Face."

"He won't." Face's tone said it all. The discussion was over.

Murdock lay still, hoping for more, that they guys would keep talking, but everyone went dead silent. There would be no more answers for him, only the questions still stirring in his head.

And the fear.

He was afraid of being alone, of this place, the guards. He was afraid of his lost memories and, most of all, he was afraid of himself—of what he would become if he did remember, of what he had been.

Murdock shifted a little closer to Face, relieved when the man leaned closer to him as well.

"It will be ok, Murdock," Face whispered.

And for as much as he wanted to believe that, Murdock couldn't.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

The warm body pressed against him only added to the oppressive heat of the cell, but Face didn't move. He wouldn't. Even as his legs cramped and his arms begged for motion, he kept still.

Nearby, BA stood as a quiet sentinel over the group, his gaze directed anywhere but at their sleeping comrade. The big man should've been resting, but Face wouldn't try his hand at making that an order. Callaghan too kept busy, prepping strips of ripped fabric for makeshift bandages from a discarded shirt. For now, it was a needless task, but it kept the medic's hands working, his attention on something other than the patient he'd been tending to earlier.

Face watched them both for a moment longer before looking down at the man laying beside him.

Murdock had shifted onto his side, pressing his bruised forehead into Face's hip. His lanky body was curled into a fetal position, maneuvered as close to Face as possible. Quiet murmurs escaped from the pilot as he slept, his brow creasing, his tight frown trembling. The nightmares seemed to be getting worse.

Callaghan and BA had tried taking turns comforting the pilot, letting him curl up next to them, but whether it was due to their discomfort or Murdock's, the captain couldn't relax. He'd just laid there, eyes open, shifting restlessly, seeming to fight back his small swells of panic. Finally, Face could stand no more and had returned to his position beside Murdock.

It should've been a burden, something Face dreaded, but it wasn't.

"If we make it out..." Face asked in a whisper, not looking up at the medic seated a few feet away.

"_When_." Callaghan corrected, though the doubt in his tone was still evident enough.

Face ignored that, choosing instead to continue on. "What will happen to _him?" _He dipped his head, giving a nod toward Murdock, though it would've been clear without the gesture who he meant. Really, he hadn't needed to ask the question at all. He'd a good idea already of the answer, but, for some reason, he wanted to hear someone else put a voice to it.

Callaghan shifted, looking up from the stack of frayed cloth to the sleeping pilot. He stole a moment of pause, locked in thought before he spoke again. "I guess it depends on him...and on Hannibal."

That was the same conclusion Face kept returning to and one that he didn't yet find comforting. The threat of a section eight loomed too heavily in Murdock's future. That, on top of everything that had already happened, would ruin the pilot.

"If Hannibal asks you..." Face trailed off for a moment, unsure if he had any right to make a request. This couldn't be a demand made by an officer—that wouldn't work. Cal wouldn't respect him or the order. Face could ask as a friend, but, in the end, he let the favor on the tip of his tongue morph into a harmless question. "...what will you tell him?"

Cal shrugged. "Dunno."

_Dunno? _Face frowned. _What the hell did that mean? After everything they'd been through together? _He damn well wasn't going to let that answer sit as it was.

"You don't know?" The question came out with a bitter twist, which surprised even Face, even though the words were his own. "Care to elaborate on_ that_?"

Again, a noncommittal shrug. "No."

Face shot BA a glance, expecting the large man to be conveying the same disbelief he, himself, felt over Cal's answer, but that was not the case.

It was a sad, faint scowl that greeted him. A slow shake of the head, a sign of his disagreement with Face's questioning, and that was all BA gave before his dark stare roamed back to the cell door. He would say no more. He clearly didn't want to be a part of the conversation.

"He'll be fine," Face snapped, turning back to Cal. He was surprised by the force in his own words, but he needed them to be true. Oh hell, how he needed them to be true.

"I hope so." Cal returned to ripping the strips of fabric. It had become a meaningless task almost, as the pile grew. "Only time can tell for sure. Just like every other damn thing around here, we need to wait for this. And when I know, one way or the other, I'll let Hannibal know. But, I think, by then, he'll already have decided for himself."

"So you'll just turn on Murdock? You'll sell him over? Section eight him?" _Shit,_ _Cal would, wouldn't he? _A slow panic started to mix with Face's anger. This was too much.

A brief nod. "Hell yeah. Man's a pilot. If he's lost his head, I can't let him keep flying." There was a pause, a tight frown pulling at Cal's lips before he managed to ease it away. "Wouldn't want to, but..." He glanced up at Face, his eyes bright, intense. "...if I let him take a bird up and something went wrong, if he couldn't handle it, that would be on me, that would be on Hannibal and that would be on you. Just think about that, ok?"

For a moment, they held that stalemate of a stare. Cal trying to get his point across and Face too stubborn to back down. Finally, Callaghan caved and looked away, returning to his busy work.

Face kept watching the medic a few minutes longer, letting the man fidget under his heated glare. He could tell Cal kept stealing glances back from the corner of his eye, but the little man wouldn't look up, wouldn't let the argument continue.

When he was satisfied that the man had squirmed enough, Face turned away. The problem was, the more he reflected on what Cal had said, the more he had to agree with it. If things got bad, they couldn't let Murdock fly. Face knew that, _but_...

_Shit. _Assuming they managed to get out of this hell-hole, why'd Ray have to be leaving now? One more month and this could've been sorted out without any of it falling on Face's shoulders.

The thought was petty. Face knew it, but the shame that came to him was weak, stunted by his own want to be unburdened by the tasks to come. Ray had served two tours. He had a fiancée waiting for him at home. Murdock wasn't Ray's responsibility. Pretty soon, none of this would be.

Of course, maybe it wouldn't be Face's either. Maybe Hannibal's plan wouldn't work. Maybe they'd all die, rotting away in these shitty prison camps. There'd be no section eights, no one would be sent home. That had a strange, defeatist sort of comfort to it.

Face shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he did so.

No, he wouldn't let himself fall into that pitfall of thought. Hannibal could be a smug, cocky bastard with crazy-ass plans that never worked quite like they should, but they worked. They'd get out, and Face would have to figure out what to do with the pilot.

Internally, Face had already wrestled with the fact that Murdock probably _did _have ties with the Agency. Discovering that, and that the man had kept it so well hidden from him, hurt. Still, he found it changed little between them. Murdock had risked his life to save him. No aspect of the man's history could change that.

No matter what, this was Murdock. Agent or not, crazy or not, this was his friend—one of the few true friends Face had ever had, and he wouldn't turn his back on the man.

Again, the slow train of memories from that last trip to the shack started filtering back through Face's thoughts. He'd try to stave them off, but the image of Murdock strapped to that chair, helpless and weak with that crazed, haunted look in his eyes kept burning into Face's brain.

The smell, the bodies, the things that had happened in that shack before Face had come to witness the madness—how could any man keep his sanity after that? Having only seen the aftermath of what Murdock had endured, Face already had nightmares.

He looked down and watched Murdock twitch in his sleep. He couldn't begin to fathom the horrors the man's subconscious was putting him through. Fortunately, every time the captain woke, whatever troublesome dreams that plagued him seemed to evaporate. But the dark lines under his eyes, the drag of fatigue clinging to him, were proof they had been. Still, he said he couldn't recall any dreams at all, he'd thought his sleep to be a blank canvas, and Face believed him. If he could remember, those odd, lopsided grins wouldn't still be able to ease their way onto his face.

And the memories themselves, the worst of them, still seemed to be evading the pilot. The holes in what he could remember bothered the man to no end, Face could see that, but, all the same, he was thankful for the loss.

As long as the memories were gone, buried, lost, there was still hope for Murdock, but if they came back...

The pilot would turn into that feral, wailing thing that flung itself about without care, without reason every time the guards had hauled him down the halls. Frothing and yowling like a wild animal, seemingly incapable of coherent thought. Face couldn't bear that. Whatever that creature was, it wasn't Murdock, and yet, sadly, it was.

That grief sent a shock-wave through him, something that took his breath away. It was like plunging into a river on a summer day and realizing only too late how cold the glacial waters were. It was all consuming, clouding over him, threatening to sweep him away.

Face made himself a promise. If they got out, if they made it out intact, he'd never tell. Murdock never had to know. More than that. He couldn't know. What had happened in those interrogations had to stay in that shack. That was a burden Face was willing to carry.

After a few moments of strained breath, worked into a calming rhythm only after deep concentration, Face was able to gather his thoughts again.

At least Lo's threat had been a bluff. Murdock had woken up and no one had come for them, not yet anyways. They still could though.

With his memories lost, Murdock wouldn't know what to be prepared for—not that there was any way to prepare for that sadistic shit Lo pulled. Going in with a blank slate, cracking all over again, that would be the last straw for the pilot. There would be no coming back from that. And Face?

He was lucky. He'd just be dead.


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-one**

January 15, 1970

Fool kept waking up and chit-chatting like it was just another day at the beach. Man didn't have enough common sense to keep his yap shut, which was fine as long as he knew not to drag BA into his jibber-jabber. Wasn't the time or the place for that much fool talk. They were busting out in three days, the crazy man needed to cool it.

And, like a moth drawn to a flame, Murdock zeroed in on BA.

The man talked about everything and nothing under the sun. Worse yet, Callaghan and Face seemed fine with humoring him, keeping the conversations going. Hell, they seemed to enjoy it, but BA knew it wasn't right. The rambling was wrong. Some wires or something were crossed in the man's head. This wasn't entirely the witty, care-free banter that it was before the prison. Fool _couldn't _shut up. He'd been bad before, but now...

"Hey, BA, I was wondering..."

"What was you wondering, fool?" Not even the edge to BA's tone could dampen that stupid grin on the captain's face.

"Well..." Murdock continued, still beaming. "How did a big, bad Sasquatch such as yourself get himself a fear of flying. _And_, how'd you get into the airborne anyway? I been wondering it for a while now and thought I'd ask. Face said not to, but..."

"Face was right," BA snapped. That wasn't none of the fool's business.

But Murdock kept right on.

"What got you so scared of choppers, muchacho? Was before you met me. I know that. And before you joined Hannibal's team. 'Fore this, I talked to some of the other pilots around base to see if I could sort out what's what, and they said..."

"Fool, shut up. Don't matter what they said!"

The outburst earned a glance from Face and Callaghan, but, somehow, they didn't see fit to step in. Callaghan merely closed his eyes again, drifting off into what BA was sure was a mock sleep, and Face turned his gaze back to the door. Man was probably tryin' to figure out Hannibal's plan again. _Good luck, sucker. _The colonel had been pretty damn cryptic on what exactly was gonna go down.

"Meyers, one of the fellas I talked to, said it happened a while back. Must've been your first patrol." Joking tone gone, Murdock's expression was dead solemn, serious. "That's what he said anyways. Said he knew the pilot, Captain LaPine."

It wasn't just a question anymore. It was a challenge to set the record straight. Problem was, the fool pretty much hit the nail on the head.

"Go ta sleep or something but shut your mouth." BA could feel his blood starting to pump a little faster, that old familiar anger rising.

Murdock blinked, as if he was just realizing how close he was coming to tipping BA over the edge. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I just..." With a shrug, he turned away. "Talking helps...for me...right now."

That golden silence that BA had wanted so badly finally came, only he couldn't enjoy a damn minute of it. Firstly, there was that look Face gave him. It was a cross between that hurtful disappointment only kin can give and that vat of pissed off fury of a CO. For what he was worth though, Face kept silent, but his gaze said it all. _Fix this or else._

Secondly, there was something too damn pitiful about the way the fool just hunched over, eyes vacantly focused on the floor as he started to bottle up all his crazy man problems. Just wasn't right. What would his mama had said if she saw him treating the fool like that? Making a grown man, already hurting, feel so low?

"It was LaPine." BA forced the words out. Wasn't one man in the world he didn't want to talk about more.

Murdock gave a weak nod, head still lowered, eyes downcast. BA was gonna have to give up a lot more if he wanted to patch things over. He took in a deep breath, preparing himself.

"There were four of us on the rappel lines when everything went to shit. It was early, real early, and the LZ was supposed to be clear, but, when we got there, a tree was down where the chopper was gonna land." BA paused, looking up at the ceiling. He knew Murdock was listening, that they were all listening. He'd prefer to take another pummeling from Charlie rather than lay his guts out for his team to see, but it was either this or watch Murdock slowly start to crumble again. "We got about halfway down the line when we started taking hits. Must've been a 50-cal waiting for us there. The other three guys on the line dropped in the first spray of gunfire, but I was unhurt. Don't know how but..."

Watching those guys fall, their bodies going limp, plummeting downward, snapping through the brush and hitting ground. He heard them. Even with the gunfire and the pulse of the chopper blades, he swore he heard them hit.

"And the pilot," BA paused to wet his lips, letting the memories come cascading back. "He was just tryin' to save his ass, save who was still with him in the chopper."

That moment, the terrifying moment, came back to him, made his stomach feel like it was trying to jump up his throat all over again. It was that weightless, helpless feeling of dangling, swaying, spinning. Something he couldn't stop. The drop was too far, and he would've fallen right into enemy hands. So, he held on. God, how he held on.

"Chopper took outta there like a bat outta hell. Nothing I could do. No going up the line, no dropping. The bird took damage, was wobbling and weaving, fighting ta stay in the sky."

That dip and sway, and sickening drop and rise came back in a flood to BA's senses. The threat of treetops loomed close, ready to break bones, tear flesh as they whipped by. The memories were too much. He wanted to drive them away, but he pushed on.

He slid his hands to his sides, letting his fingers find the cold stone beneath him—a grim reassurance that he was still on the ground, still in a shitty POW camp. Even that seemed better than being back on that line.

"And then?"

BA flinched as he glanced up at Murdock. Somehow he'd forgotten about the man, forgotten about all of them as he relived his own little hell.

"Then LaPine found a clear LZ and landed." Wasn't quite as simple as that. It took five minutes to get to the new LZ. Five minutes that seemed to last longer than BA's entire lifetime. He'd dropped from the line when the chopper came in for the landing, but, by then, he'd already been pummeled and bruised by the ride. Only a small miracle and an entire chopper crew had kept BA from beating the living shit out of LaPine. Wasn't really the man's fault. BA knew that now. With a damaged chopper, the man hadn't had a lot of options, and he did manage to get most of 'em out of there alive.

"So, what'd you do after that?" This time Face was asking.

"Another Slick came in to pick us up, and I got in and went back to base." And with that ride came that new, swelling terror. He was no longer fearless, no longer indestructible.

"And so you're afraid of flying now." Cal was shaking his head softly. "Shit, I'd have some trouble with it myself if that happened to me."

The following silence was more uncomfortable than sharing the story had been. It was like BA could feel them all thinking about him. Reflecting on why he was the way he was.

"But..." Murdock left such a long pause after the lone word that BA wasn't sure the man was going to continue, and he was half surprised when he did. "...what I don't understand is why you are afraid of _flying._"

_What the hell? The man was joking, right? _But, judging by the way Murdock seemed to be mulling over this thought like it was a deep, ancient puzzle containing some all-knowing truth, he wasn't joking.

"I mean, and hear me out, big guy, why aren't you afraid of _rappelling_? I seen you do that with no problem at all. Seems to me that was the real problem."

"Murdock, maybe we should..." Face's warning was quickly cut off.

"Shut up, fool," BA growled, glaring at the pilot. Of course the idiot would defend flying. Stupid-ass flyboys had no sense of what was what.

"I just meant..."

"SHUT UP, MURDOCK!" This time BA's tone had the man snapping his mouth shut.

It was no one's place, especially the fool's, to tell him what he should be afraid of. None of them were there. They didn't know.

BA stewed long and hard, grasping at the anger and hate, trying to force out the fear and even the memories of the fear. He'd been at it so long that by the time he chanced a glance at the other three men, Callaghan had lulled off into a genuine sleep, Face had shifted to sit closer to Murdock, and the pilot...

Hell, all in all, Murdock was the only one who hadn't acted like BA had just skinned a cat in their cell. He looked up, meeting BA's gaze, and gave a lopsided grin. It was like their last whole damn conversation hadn't happened.

And for as much as BA wanted to stay mad, he just couldn't. Didn't mean he was gonna start jabbering on with the man, but he wouldn't make him shut up either. It was only for three days. He could handle that…probably.

"Sure is some weather we've been having, huh, BA?"

_The weather? It was as miserable as always. Wasn't nothing different about it to talk about. _

BA thought about doling out another low growl, not giving the man anything to work off, but instead he sighed and, grudgingly, replied, "Yeah man…hot." Watching Murdock's grin spread a little, he added. "It's something else. Just crazy."


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-two**

January 16, 1970

Even with the barrel of an AK-47 digging into his back, Hannibal couldn't help but smirk at those astonished faces staring up as Ray and he entered the cell. Chow was getting sloppy—_really _sloppy, but that served him fine.

How long had it been since he'd actually _seen _all his men? Two weeks? Three? A month? After a brief mental tally, he had his answer—two days shy of a month. That was it. Funny, it'd seemed more like a goddamn lifetime.

He scanned the tiny room, taking in what he could in the fleeting glance he'd managed before the persistent jabbing of the guard's rifle forced him to stumble forward. Face looked like shit, but, in all fairness, so did BA, Callaghan and Murdock. It was just easier to see on the kid. Those handsome features didn't sit well under a month of starvation, cruelty and filth.

Ahead of Hannibal and further into the cell, Ray dropped heavily to the floor, his eyes snapping shut as he did so. He was quick to roll into a protective position, head cradled in his arms, body tense as he waited expectantly for the blows to land. His guards hesitated, dark eyes fixed on their prisoner.

"Đó là đủ. Để lại cho anh ta một mình!" The voice was sharp, weary. Hannibal didn't even have to turn around to know it was the older, war-worn NVA lieutenant who had the good sense to call his hounds away.

Sure, they wanted to cause pain, _but _it wasn't what their masters wanted just yet. Chow would've had all their hides for that. Slowly, the guards who'd followed Ray into the cell eased back to the door, shoving past Hannibal.

Two strides further had Hannibal far enough into the cell to appease his escorts. That pressure from the rifle tip disappeared from his back and he turned, smile gone, to stare down the remaining guards.

The lieutenant, with his dark, slicked back hair and wispy, thin mustache, looked bored or maybe too tired to care what was happening, but some slight glint in that cold, calculating gaze gave Hannibal the notion that this was a man who, if pushed, would do what needed to be done. Chow's orders be damned, he'd blow anyone's brains out in a heartbeat, and it probably wouldn't mean a damn thing more to him than lighting up a cigarette.

Causally the lieutenant looked at Hannibal, and the colonel felt a warning swelling, trembling in his chest, begging him to look away, give in, but he couldn't. A hint of a smile finally tugged at the corners of the lieutenant's mouth and then he turned away. There was no pomp or ceremony to his exit. He simply walked away, slamming the door behind him.

Hannibal could feel it in the marrow of his bones. He'd be seeing that little bastard again. He'd probably be in charge during their move to Alcatraz. The man was getting a feel for his prisoners, sizing them up. It was a good move. It's what Hannibal would've done in his place.

"Holy shit, how'd you manage _that_?"

Craning his neck around, Hannibal blinked back at Face for a second, taking in his meaning. Soon enough, that awe-filled, wide-eyed stare the kid was giving him had Hannibal grinning all over again. It was nice to know his young Lt thought he had enough sway to pull this off, but that couldn't have been further from truth.

He shook his head. "Wasn't me. This is Chow's doing, all on his own."

Well, the tap message he sent to Captain Henderson, who politely passed it on to everyone in his cell, Lt. Tommy Angel included, could've helped Chow come to this decision. He'd tried to keep the message cryptic, rather guarded sounding, but there was enough there to hint that Hannibal's men weren't doing so hot. Hell, Hannibal had only expected Chow to up their food intake not to do a cell move. This was _much _better than he planned.

Just as Callaghan shifted closer to Ray, the man sat up. Grin in place, he gave the medic a friendly, overly enthusiastic slap on the shoulder. "How the hell you doing, Cal?" Without so much as a pause for an answer, he continued. "No need for fussing on my account. I'm fit as a fiddle! Shit, I thought we were gonna be eating bullets after the guards came for us both." He suddenly hesitated, casting an apologetic glance at Hannibal. "_Or _at least _I _thought so."

No act could hide how badly the move had shaken Ray. Dom's departure, his failure to return sat all too heavily in their minds. That could've been any of them. Perhaps, it still could.

"I did too," Hannibal admitted. He was long done pulling any of that meaningless reassurance crap. If his boys didn't know the score by now, they were in for a shit-storm. "Moving us here, well, I didn't think Chow would be _this _stupid, but I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth either. At this point, we take what we can get." Which wasn't amounting to a whole hell of a lot.

It wasn't the time for wallowing though, it was time for preparation, and to do that, Hannibal had to know _exactly _what he had to work with.

He passed silently by Ray, giving a solemn nod to the man. He knew his 0-2 was ready. Back in their old cell, they'd been working on mild exercises, strengthening their atrophied muscles whenever they could. With any luck, Face had been doing the same with the men here.

"Sergeant." Hannibal halted in front of BA. The big man stood, his dark eyes meeting Hannibal's. The drive was there. The colonel could see that. No one had come close to breaking the man. He still looked damn strong—maybe not his usual self, but strong nonetheless. They'd sure as hell need that strength if they had any chance of escaping.

A stride further had Hannibal in front Callaghan. The medic rose to his feet as well, tossing a sloppy salute as he beamed up at his CO.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, sir!"

"Yeah, you're one to talk, Cal," Hannibal quipped. The medic had seen better days, but, in truth, the loud-mouthed sergeant was faring better than the colonel thought he would. Still, though the man seemed somewhat intact, Hannibal guessed that Cal had taken his fair share of roughing over. Those fading bruises on his cheeks and under his eyes looked ugly enough now. They probably weren't much prettier when they were fresh.

Again, Hannibal moved on.

Face was already standing, popping a salute to the colonel as he sauntered up. Peck was probably dying to hand the reins over, give up the pressure of command. Hannibal eyed him a moment, taking inventory of the damage.

The kid was painfully thin. Sunken skin clung to the curves of his skull, giving him a gaunt, skeletal appearance. The mess of long, greasy hair didn't help the look either, nor did the scruff on his face. Instead of hiding his weight loss, the bearded mess and wayward mane only emphasized the growing hollows in his grim visage.

The diarrhea had done a number on Peck, melting away what little weight he'd had. Hannibal had tried to prepare himself for this, but seeing it made his stomach turn.

"Lieutenant." The greeting came out layered with more concern than Hannibal had felt comfortable sharing. It was too late to take it back though.

"Colonel." And then, there it was—that dazzling flash of a smile that negated all the paleness, all the weight loss and filth. Only the sparkle in his eyes was able to match the brilliant, toothy grin, but that was enough. "Good to see you again."

"Likewise, Face, likewise."

And with that, Hannibal came to the last man in the cell, the only person who didn't rise to meet him.

He wasn't sure what to say, how to greet the pilot. Murdock looked...well...better than he had, but that wasn't saying much.

That wailing scarecrow of a man who'd haunted the halls each time he was wrestled from his cell had been something subhuman, something that had chilled Hannibal to the core. Was this even that same guy?

Murdock blinked up at him through swollen and bruised eyelids. Somehow the growth of stringy, matted hair and thick mountain man beard suited him. It made him look for all the world like a hermit who'd gained the knowledge of sages, even though it'd nearly driven him to madness.

The grizzly growth of beard shifted, and it took Hannibal a second to figure out Murdock was grinning.

"Good to see ya, Colonel, but you're missing a pizza and my two week pass to Hawaii..." Oh yes, under the filth and fear, was no one other than HM Murdock.

"Must've slipped my mind." He tried to match that grin beaming up at him, but Hannibal could already tell, by the tightness in his lips, that it was too forced, too telling.

Of all his men, Murdock was the one he'd been the most concerned about, the one he'd feared for the most, and, in some sense, feared the most. For as much as he wanted his pilot to be fine, he couldn't forget what the man had been.

"How're you feeling?" He was trolling for tells now, seeing if the man could hold his own or if he was on the precipice of another full-fledged mental break.

"He's doing fine..." Face started but Hannibal only had to hold up a hand to get him to go silent. He'd thought the kid would put up more of a fight than that, but as he considered how badly Peck was probably hurting to have another officer take over, he could understand the sudden and uncharacteristic obedience.

"I'd prefer, Face, to hear it from_ him_."

The only sound for several long seconds was the ragged breathing of his men. It was Murdock who broke the heavy silence with an odd, raspy, rattling noise. It was several more seconds before Hannibal figured out the broken sound was Murdock laughing.

"I'm beat up, wore out, exhausted, filthy and I smell like the inside of a latrine. Just like BA's boots."

Hannibal nodded, but kept his focus trained on his captain, waiting for more.

His odd grin slipped a little before Murdock snapped it back into place. It took a few more seconds before he dared to open his mouth and respond. "All in all, I'm just Jim Dandy." He was sure trying to make it sound believable, but the next lull had Murdock shifting, his gaze drifting to the others in the cell before settling nervously on the dirt floor.

It was cruel, letting him flounder like that, but Hannibal let it run its course, curious to see if the man would or could pull himself back together. Still, he'd only push this so far, only let the man crumble so much.

Suddenly, Murdock glanced up, his eyes darting to Face. The intensity of his stare was so very at odds with the frailty that seemed to plague him physically. Hell, it wasn't just a look. Something that went far beyond words passed between those two. It was an entire, tense, frantic plea that was answered, by Face, with nonverbal, calm reassurance—all in less than a heartbeat. If he hadn't been watching the pair like a hawk, Hannibal would've missed it.

"What's your plan?" Face maneuvered himself closer, cutting in between Hannibal and Murdock. "For getting us out, what do we need to know?"

_Cute tactic, kid, but you've got rocks in the head if you think that's gonna work._

Hannibal ignored the question, his gaze, reaching over Face's shoulder, was still fixed on Murdock. He'd need a clear assessment of all his men if they were going to have a shot in hell of making this escape.

The thing was, the embarrassment, the fear he saw in Murdock had him relieved. That was far better than the pure crazy he'd seen in the man only a week ago. He showed signs of reason, of rational thought.

"Yeah, man," BA chimed in, "what _is _the plan?"

Knowing he couldn't keep brushing off the question and satisfied that he'd gotten the answer he needed from his pilot, Hannibal turned to Face. "My plan is to take out the guards on our way to Alcatraz and run like hell."

"Great." Face flashed a tight, sarcastic smile, his teeth still an impossibly brilliant white considering all they'd been through. "Except, of course, for the fact that the only way we could overpower the guards is if we managed to bottle the stench in here and hit them with it."

"_But_," Hannibal offered, "What if we have the element of surprise."

"I have no doubt they'll be surprised, Colonel, what with us all attempting suicide at once." The smile held. Even pissed as hell and scared shitless the kid managed to hold onto that oh so calm front. "Unless you managed to make an M-1 out of rice and dirt, we're going to need more than some surprise."

"Naw, kid, you had it right the first time with the suicide bit, but I think only one of us will need to pull that off." He paused, pondering the necessity of that step in his little endeavor, but there was no way around it. "Yeah, just one will do."

"Are you kidding me?" The detached, controlled man was gone. Standing, slack jawed, eyes widening then narrowing in on Hannibal, Face was no more than the scared kid who was about to strike out with anger and disbelief.

Hannibal saw it coming, he thought about cutting the man off, diverting the fury, but the kid needed an outlet, if not for this then for all the shit he'd been through. He crossed his arms, firming his stance as he stared back at Face, waiting.

"_Or _has your time here at hotel hell scrambled those goddamned brains of yours?" Even pissed he managed to keep his voice low, as his words hissed out. "One of us committing suicide is your plan? That's great, just great. Maybe we should just invite the guards in and give them a stern talking to, until they see the error of their ways. Then we can have a campfire and sing songs." He was looking into Hannibal's eyes, obviously searching for a tell, a hint that tipped him off that this was some sick joke.

"Relax, Face, _attempting _suicide, not going through with it. Besides, it will only be a fine bit of acting, with the help of a few well-placed props."

"Just what are you playing at, Colonel?" Callaghan's voice was lacking its usual touch of humor. That didn't bode well for the plan if even the fiery red-head was this skeptical.

Hannibal shrugged. There was only so much he was willing to tell them, and he already knew that wasn't going to sit well with his boys, but there was no use in stalling any longer.

"It's been raining off and on again for the last few days." He paused. At least that part no one could argue with. "The roads are thick with mud by now. There's no way Chow can transport us out of here via truck, so that means another march, more traveling tied together with the rope looped around our necks." He let that sink in. Days of marching through the jungle at the hands of their captors probably wasn't something any of them wanted to dwell on, but tough shit. They didn't get a choice anymore, and the worst was yet to come. "Remember what happened to Getz?"

It wasn't BA's snarl or Ray's disapproving head shake that struck Hannibal. It was the lighting quick way Face's eyes snaked over to Murdock. He was concerned enough with Murdock's reaction that Face had forgotten to control his tells.

"_That_," Hannibal said, "will not be happening to _any _of us."

Reaching into the waistband of his pants—thank god he'd had the foresight to hide their escape supplies on himself when the guards came— he pulled out the thick, sharpened lengths of wire. He fanned them out, holding them up for his team to see.

"The loops won't tighten if we pin them."

BA shifted closer, plucking one of the wires from Hannibal to inspect it. "How'd you get 'em?"

"Lin." There wasn't any point in keeping that a secret. No one here would sell him out.

"This could work," Ray added, though the tone held less encouragement than Hannibal had hoped.

"Face, Cal..." Hannibal glanced at each man, marking the wariness in their expressions. This was going to be a hard sell. "You two will be in charge of placing the wires after we get moving. I'll see to it that the guards stop us every so often to let us rest. Chow probably sent a message ahead letting them know a captured colonel was on his way, so the guards won't be too eager to march me to death."

"Um, Colonel," Callaghan frowned, "how the hell exactly do we do all that with our hands tied behind our backs?"

Hannibal grinned. "Talent?" A round of groans followed suit which normally wouldn't have cowed him much, but the looks of disappoint had no trouble doing so. Smile fading, he folded his arms. "Practice. Ray's got two lengths of rope tied around his waist. Use that. Tie your wrists behind your backs and then practice pinning a knot tied in the second rope." He paused, narrowing his gaze on Face and then switching to Callaghan. "I want you to practice this until you can do it in you sleep, understand?"

"And then what?" BA asked, something unsettling serious and stoic in his expression.

_Hell, _this next part wasn't going to sit well with the boys no matter how Hannibal presented it. That was for sure. "When we're traveling, and after all the wires are in place, _whoever _is at the front of the line needs to make a run for it."

No one argued, not yet, but it was only a matter of time. He could see it in their faces.

"The North Vietnamese soldiers will think all the loops have tightened, that we're all being strangled. They'll drop their guard, and, if past experience has taught us anything, they will converge on the lone man who tried to run. They'll never see the next step coming."

The looks might not have been of overall approval, but the understanding, the revelations of what was needed did cross the men's faces.

"Get your hands in front of you first, if you can, and then, when their backs are turned, start taking down as many guards as possible. Securing guns is a top priority." He waited another tick, already seeing the argument welling in Face's expression. "Another thing. The person who runs can't be Murdock or me. Chow has probably given his men orders not to have us harmed, so they'd be quick to loosen our nooses not giving us enough time to get the jump on the guards."

Whatever argument Face had was tempered. It wasn't by much, but it was enough to have some of the anger seeping from his expression. Although, it was immediately replaced by wariness. "Then what?"

This part was going to be even harder to sell. Face didn't strike him much as a 'blind faith' sort of guy. "We run. That's all you need to know, for now."

"All we need to know? You think we're going to risk..." Face was hitting his angry tirade stride when he was cut short.

"Just say the word Hannibal." It was Murdock. His voice steadier than Hannibal had heard it in a long time. Whatever had happened to him, whatever he'd become, it was clear he'd held on to his belief in Hannibal. Murdock was still speaking to Hannibal as his eyes went to Face. "We'll be ready."

Wordless questions and answers passed between them—this time Face questioning and Murdock assuring. With a small nod, Murdock closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, looking not so much exhausted as relieved.

"Thanks, I have full faith that..." But Hannibal was cut short as a shadow appeared at the peephole in their cell door.

"Hello my friends." The voice greeted, a loaf of bread already hanging in the opening. "For you, food."

Cal was the closest to the door, so he took the offering, revealing Lin's smiling face peering in through the peephole. If there was one person Hannibal really wanted to take from the camp, it was Lin. The man wouldn't stand a chance against Chow if he ever found out he was the one supplying food to the prisoners. But, no planning the colonel could muster had the reality of bringing the jolly little baker with them.

"Murdock, we sing now? That song, like before."

And for as quiet as the pilot had been earlier, he just let loose.** "**Yippie yi yo kayah, Yippie yi yo kayah. Get along little horsy. Get along little horsy. Yippie yi yo kayah, oh!"

"Yip-yip-oh! Yippee-a yippee-a. Yip-yip-oh!" Lin paused, sucking in a deep breath before repeating his fairly butchered line all over again.

And, for as horrible as the song was coming out, Hannibal couldn't help but smile. He had a plan, his men were together, and, one way or another, they'd be done with prison camps for good in a couple of days. That was all that mattered.


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-three **

January 18, 1970

No one had spoken in hours. Face could've blamed the silence on Hannibal's suggestion they get some shut eye, but the quiet was borne from more than that. After all, it hadn't been an order. They could've kept the low murmurs of conversation going, but, really, there was no more to be said, or, more appropriately, there was nothing else they felt comfortable saying.

As he was sure the others were doing, Face locked his fear down, letting it fester in his gut rather than unleash it on his team. Feeding a group panic would do no good.

He leaned forward for a moment, allowing his spine room to arch a bit now that it wasn't pressed firmly against the stiff, cold cell wall. A few faint pops sounded from his back, giving him a short swell of relief before he leaned against the wall again. He would've stretched more, but, in the dark of night, it was too likely he'd jostle and wake someone. For the sake of the other's sleep, his aching joints could wait a bit a longer.

The hot assaulting odor of urine and the unrelenting, sickly sweet odor of shit filled the stagnate air. Even the coolness of the night couldn't ease the baked in sewer stench the day's heat brought. Sometimes the odors seemed to fade, but Face knew they didn't really. It was just his senses dulling, being washed away by the barrage of foulness around him. Maybe it was better that way.

There was no point in moping though, not when he could be practicing still.

He let his fingers fumble down to the waistband of his pants and he pulled loose the bit of wire stashed there. It was funny to think of how his whole life depended on that lone slip of metal. Thank God that Hannibal had managed to acquire it. Maybe though, in the future, Face thought, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have a stash of handy 'tools' already hidden away on his person. Lock picks would be useful—_very _useful.

When Face was only seven, Sam Carpenters had taught him all about picking locks. Sam had been older, at nine, and had already been in an out of the orphanage five times. Most of his ventures to the _outside_, as Sam liked to call it, had been spent living on the streets as he seemed to immediately run away from his new families.

Still, the boy could lay the charm on back at the orphanage. There were always new couples stopping to chat and fawn over him, with their starry eyed hope of having the perfect child misting over the warnings the nuns gave about the _troubled _youth. There was something in those bright, emerald eyes, deep dimples and cherub-like blond curls that had adults eating out of Sam's hands.

And then, one day, he left with a family and never came back. Face never heard from him again, never knew if he finally settled down or found a way to roam the streets without falling back into the hands of the nuns. There were whispers that he was sent to juvenile hall, but Face didn't believe that. Sam was too crafty for that.

Still thinking of his long lost friend, Face began to twirl the bit of wire through his fingers, like Sam had showed him how to do with a coin long ago. The key, Sam said, to being on the run, was keeping your reflexes quick.

So, if Face couldn't manage something as simple as this dexterity test, then he sure as hell knew he wouldn't be able to pull off what Hannibal wanted.

He'd opted, against the colonel's wishes, to stay up all night practicing his technique with the wire and knots. The darkness itself couldn't even deter him. To him, that just made the challenge all that much better. He'd reluctantly put away his gear for a short while though, giving his fingers a brief respite to keep them from blistering any further.

Callaghan had dozed off hours ago, and Face allowed it, even though almost everything inside him raged against the simple mercy of letting the man rest. They couldn't afford any slip-ups. That hour of sleep could've been an hour of practice.

Face twirled the wire faster, alarmed for a moment as his index finger faltered, nearly sending the bit of metal to the dark floor. Recovering his pace, he thought again of waking Callaghan but didn't. It was still a few hours before dawn. _With any luck..._

The distant, gentle squeak of a hinge had Face sitting up straighter, eyes searching the dim cell for Hannibal, but it was too dark to make anything out still. Face froze, struck by the sudden uncertainty, fear that this place seemed to breed.

"Get ready..." Hannibal's voice, low and raspy, broke whatever vice held Face.

He moved, stashing the wire into the pocket of his cheek, carefully biting down on the metal so that he didn't skewer the inside of his mouth with the sharpened end. The others would be doing the same. Each man was to carry his own. Hopefully the guards wouldn't search them too well.

_Shit...shit...shit..._

Laying down felt so wrong. Every tense muscle in his body begged him to stay upright, alert, but he forced himself to the ground, forced his eyes closed, his breathing to calm. The guards were trying to move in stealth. On any other night, they might not have heard them approach.

Face counted the footsteps, trying to calculate how many there were, but it was a hopeless endeavor. The pounding of his heart was competing too much, drowning out the footfalls.

They'd have to struggle, make a show of it all. That wouldn't be a problem; the problem would be keeping it just a show. He had some serious doubts as to whether BA was really going to follow Hannibal's orders and not immediately break the first neck he got a hold of.

He shrugged the thought off, pushing it away. It wasn't his problem; that was Hannibal's. Yet, he knew that was a lie. Things weren't like before when he merely had to have his teammates' backs, save their asses when he could. This was an all-encompassing pressure to keep them safe. There was no denying it; the weight of command had never been fully lifted.

_Goddamn Hannibal. _Somehow that seemed like his fault, like he'd planned it somehow. There probably wasn't a lick of truth to that feeling, but Face couldn't put it past the colonel either.

At the click of the lock, Face felt his breath hitch, his jaw ache as he clenched down on the wire hidden in his cheek. There was no turning back—not that he wanted to. He pushed down the fear, the doubt and any other emotion that wasn't linked to his cold, hard will to survive.

A moment more of silence followed. He could sense the men in the hall, not by their breath or voices—of which there was not a hint—but by instinct. And that moment, those seconds held longer than any law of time could have feasibly stretched them. They were drawn out, torturous, warped and paused in a way nothing should be.

One last breath, meant to be calming but hardly so, was all Face could manage before the door flew open. No self-restraint could keep him from instantly sitting up, squinting in the light that flooded their cell. He tossed his arms up, shielding his eyes from the glare but keeping himself in a ready position.

The dark forms slunk forward quickly, one sending a sharp kick into Hannibal's side. The colonel had remained laying down, only groggily lifting his head in an act that was Oscar worthy as the guards entered the cell, the well placed kick though, had him rolling over, slowly sitting up with an arm wrapped around his midsection.

"Đứng lên! Đứng lên!"

A scuffle broke out somewhere in the cell. Face's eyes had yet to adjust, but BA's low growl was enough to suggest the big guy was tossing his two bits into the scene. A sharper cry had Face moving, the hair on his scalp prickling. _Murdock..._

Barely on his feet, Face was tackled and pinned up against the stone wall. He struggled, more than he should've, but that blinding pang of panic and rage wouldn't subside, not right away. It wasn't until both arms were drawn behind him, wrists bound together that Face found enough clarity to still himself.

Murdock had gone quiet. They'd all gone quiet, save for the raspy, heavy breathing their wasted energy had given them.

So transfixed on listening to the others, trying to gauge their conditions, Face wasn't prepared for the hands pulling him, practically dragging him from the cell. Guards on either side of him, he stumbled into the hall.

Ahead of him, BA, hands bound behind him just like Face, was surrounded by guards as he was prodded along. Behind Baracus, Murdock walked, head down, a single guard at his side. His thin arms were drawn up to the small of his back, but the position looked too natural on Murdock for some reason, so it took Face a moment to realize that the pilot had his hands bound as well.

Face could only guess that the others were somewhere behind him. He was about to look back, driven by the urge to see his teammates, confirm they were ok, when something else caught his attention.

It was movement in the peepholes of the cells. Eyes staring out at him from each tiny room. He saw hope in some and defeat in others. Skin too tight, cheeks too hollow, the men, both American and Vietnamese, watched, waiting, fearing. There were too many, so many who they were about to leave behind. It couldn't be helped, Face held onto that grim fact, trying to take comfort in it, but the shame, the guilt still filled him.

Before they reached the end of the hall, Face had to look away from those men. He stared at his feet as he trod along, not glancing up again until they were outside in the dim predawn light. A soft, misty rain was falling, but, in the jungle, it was likely to give way to a downpour at any moment.

"Shit..." As he stared up at the waiting truck, the word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but, for the most part, it went ignored by the guards.

BA was lead to the back of the deuce and a half and, none too gently, urged into the canvas covered truck-bed. One quick glance at Hannibal and it was more than obvious the big man would fight his way free of boarding the truck if the colonel gave the nod. Hannibal, though, shook it off, and Face released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Even with his hands bound behind his back, BA had little trouble nimbly climbing into the truck. For as big as he was, the man could actually move with a surprising amount of grace when he wanted to. Face would have to remember that.

Murdock was shoved up into the truck next. His loading process not nearly as smooth as BA's as the guards hurried him in. Face's climb ranked somewhere between the first two. He'd needed a little push from the guards to get his momentum up, but he hadn't fallen over himself nearly as much as Murdock.

Four guards were already seated in the back of the truck, AK-47's at the ready. Face settled into a seat, trying to make eye contact with Murdock, but the pilot wouldn't look up. He sat, hunched over on the bench across from Face, staring at the floor.

Ray, Hannibal and Callaghan entered and Murdock still kept his eyes downcast. The engine revved to life, three more guards filtering into the back, sitting at the rear.

The gentle rain outside morphed quickly from a drizzle to a downpour as the truck started forward, the journey beginning. Face tore his attention off Murdock, looking from BA to Ray and finding hints of panic in their fleeting glances as well. It wasn't until he turned his gaze to Hannibal that Face felt the warning bells going off in his head.

There it was—that smart-ass, all-knowing grin. If Face wasn't so damn sure he'd earn a bullet in the attempt, he would've gotten off his bench right then and popped the colonel on the chin. _What the hell did he have to be smiling about?_

And, almost as if Hannibal had planned it, answering Face's mental question, the truck lurched to a halt. The slick, wet spinning of tires and roar of the engine were all that could be heard over the patter of rain falling on the canvas.

And Hannibal's grin widened, the gleam in his eyes dancing a little wilder.

The guards spent the next thirty minutes taking turns either watching their prisoners or trying to pry the big wheels out of the growing lake-sized puddles they were stuck in. An argument broke out, the garbled Vietnamese half eaten by the sound of the rain. Only as the clouds suddenly parted, beams of sunlight sending wisps of steam to float upward into the leafy canopy, did Face catch enough of the guards' conversation.

They had sent a man back to the camp, to get new orders from Lo. There was some division in the ranks as to whether they should head back to Son Tay or begin the trek on foot. The returning message was blunt.

_Go._

Herded out of the truck, they were given boots and then tethered together with the loops of rope around their necks. A short spiel and demonstration, for which BA was chosen to participate, showed them all how easily they could be restrained by the tightening slipknot.

After the slipknot was loosened, it took a gasping BA a while to regain his footing, haul himself upright again, all the while his deathly glare focused on the nearest guard. It'd been a move that would end up costing their captors dearly in the end. BA's dark expression promised that.

Eight guards went, two stayed with the truck. Six to eight—those odds weren't horrible, if they'd been evenly matched, that was. The whole AK-47s and not being tied up aspect kind of shifted things in the guards' favor.

The march started out slow, the prisoners' newly issued boots sinking and sucking in the mud with each step. Face could already feel the skin rubbing off his heels, the blisters forming.

After an hour, Hannibal stumbled, gasping for breath. Anger subsiding and their eagerness to keep the men moving squelched, the guards finally seemed to come to an uneasy realization of the importance of keeping the colonel alive.

Reluctantly, the line was halted, the men granted rest. They squatted in the mud, finding little comfort. It was too soon to make a move. The guards were still too wary.

Face glanced over, making brief eye contact with Callaghan. Sweat glistened on the medic's brow, his body gently heaving with each breath he drew in. The fear was too clear, but that sharp understanding in the simple gaze was as well. Cal gave a faint nod and rocked back on his heels just a bit, making it clear he would take no action yet.

It took Face a moment longer to understand, to realize that Cal was positioned at the front of the line. He had every right to be afraid. They all remembered far too well what happened to Getz. No one wanted to go out like that.

A slow stroll down the line, appraising each man, had a lone NVA Lt. halting in front of Hannibal. "Đứng lên. Nhận được di chuyển."

Hannibal tilted his head up, nothing playful glinting in those tired blue eyes as he glared back. The thin mustached guard was easy to recognize. He was the man who'd brought Hannibal and Ray to Face's cell. He was, it seemed, a man not to be challenged. Too bad they would anyways. Still, Hannibal said nothing. He just awkwardly rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Face followed Hannibal's lead, as did the others, and soon they were moving again.

As difficult as it was, they managed to sabotage the pace as much as possible, stumbling and tripping, falling and feigning weakness—which was sometimes only a partial act. With no pins in place of the loops though, it sometimes cost them their very breath.

Face had his strategy planned out already. Murdock was directly behind him, so he'd be the first to get his knot pinned, then BA. Cal, in the front of the line, would need to pin Hannibal and Ray's ropes. Since they were too far from each other, Face and Cal would have to pin their own as well. It wasn't ideal, but they had planned and practiced for such a situation. The hard part was going to be getting their hands in front of them, pinning the knot and getting their hands behind their backs again without being noticed.

Hannibal collapsed to the ground, pulling the rope taunt, snapping off airways. Face dropped to his knees, struggling to get his hands free, nearly pulling his shoulders from the sockets. The guards were quick to swarm Hannibal and Murdock, loosening their slipknots while the others still struggled.

Face was in a panic by the time a guard finally scurried up and yanked the rope loose. The man had moved on before Face's vision even had time to clear. He blinked up at the green leaves flickering in the jungle canopy overhead, the faint blue of the sky, nearly hidden away.

"Now!" Murdock hissed.

Almost without thinking, Face shimmied back a bit, got into a crouch and reached up. Murdock must've leaned down, holding the wire between his teeth, directing into Face's hand. He took hold of it, maneuvering then to the knot, feeling his way over Murdock's neck, the rope, until he was in position. Eyes closed, he could picture it all easy enough in his head. The pin slid in and he gave the rope a gentle tug to test it. Everything held.

"_Down..." _

The pilot's whispered warning instantly had Face back on the ground, setting back into his wild-eyed, panting panic—except this time it _was _just an act.

One of the guards stormed past, eyeing each of them in a lazy manner, too much satisfaction still on his face from watching them all suffer. He moved on soon enough, drawn back to the front of the line by Hannibal's curses and hacking cough. Whatever the colonel was doing, it was working. All the guards were closing in on him. They weren't threatening or attacking. Mainly it was concern plaguing the guards, not so much for their prisoner but for themselves. Hannibal's death would not earn them anything they wanted.

The guard gone, BA shifted forward. Face was quick to repeat his process. He could feel time slipping away from him, and they'd still need to distract the guards after this so that Cal could get everyone in the front of the line set up. Done with BA's knot, he gave it a brief test as well. It too held.

He could hear the big man moving away as he started to twist and contort his body, drawing his bound hands underneath him and to his front. He'd practiced enough, as did Callaghan. Somehow, just as Hannibal had figured, they were the only two still limber enough to pull the move off.

It took only seconds to pin his own knot, wiggle his bound hands back under him so they were behind him once again. Having done so, he broke into a coughing fit—the signal that he'd finished.

Murdock would take it from there. Face hadn't much liked this option, but he couldn't deny the sense it made. He'd raise more than a little hell with Hannibal in the end if his assumptions had been wrong, if the guards really did hurt Murdock.

The cry was low at first, almost lost in normal murmur of the jungle, but it grew. Hannibal had calmed down, his coughing subsiding as Murdock's wail grew. The guards were slow to shift, to ease back and see what was ailing their other prisoner.

Face couldn't look back. He didn't want to see the display. He knew it was fake, that Murdock was in control the whole time, _but..._

A shiver ran through him. So many 'what ifs' playing in his head. The cries lengthened, deepened. All the guards were back now, watching the man writhe and scream. Face caught snippets of their conversation, but he could translate little. His brain was too overwhelmed, trying to hard not to focus on _those _sounds coming from his friend.

The guards debated carrying Murdock, tying him up like a butchered hog and hauling in on a long pole through the jungle. He wouldn't march, they thought, and they needed him alive. The conversation carried on for what seemed like a lifetime until Cal's coughing fit started.

Murdock went dead silent. Face glanced back to see the pilot sitting placidly in place, blinking up at the guards as if nothing had happened. Their confusion died down quickly enough, probably drowned down by the simple fact they would no longer have to spend the energy carrying the man.

They were given another ten minutes of rest before the march started again. Face started working on the ropes around his wrists. He'd been practicing a few extra tricks in the cell, and BA and Ray had managed to sharpen bits of stone. With any luck, they'd be free of their bindings. Then, all they had to do was wait for Hannibal's signal.


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-four**

Plan was crazy, coming from a crazy-ass colonel, but the man knew what he was doing too. BA didn't have to like it. He learned that long ago. He never had to like what a CO wanted, he just had to get it done—or punch the CO out, but that wasn't really an option right now, not yet anyhow.

Another thread in the rope around his wrists frayed and split. He was more than halfway through. Soon his hands would be free, and Lord help those guards when that happened.

He kept sawing away with the little sliver of stone. It seemed to be working at his hand as much as the rope. Not even his calloused palms were safe, and the slick of blood was starting to make the task difficult. Didn't matter though, he almost had enough cut that he could just muscle up and snap the rest loose.

And then that lone, sharp bird-call sounded. Only it wasn't no bird from 'Nam. It was something from the states, something foreign and out of place here. Wood Thrush was the call Hannibal liked to use.

In a flash, Cal made a mad dash, jerking to a violent halt the minute he reached the end of his line. He lay, sprawled out, hands bound behind him, pawing and thrashing frantically as his face reddened. BA might've forgotten to follow the act if the others hadn't instantly dropped as well. He did what was needed, feeling ridiculously exposed and obvious in his actions, but the guards didn't seem to notice.

Like dogs to the fleeing prey, they moved quickly to Cal, ignoring even their duty to keep Hannibal and Murdock from harm. Backs turned to him, BA rose, flexing until he felt the gratifying snap of the rope. Face was up as well, his hands free, and they, along with Murdock, quickly sprang forward. They took the first two guards down with quick twists to the neck. Face shouldered a rifle and took a knife in hand, but BA simply kept moving. No time to waste, not when he could kill the men just as easily with his bare hands.

Murdock kept up with them, though the fool was rather useless with his hands still bound, but if he stayed still they wouldn't have been able to advance with him tethering them back with the neck rope.

BA snapped another neck as Face took a guard down with a quick swipe of his knife. They'd been quick, stealthy so far, but that wouldn't last much longer. Ray joined them now, his hands free as well from the work he'd done with his own piece of sharpened stone. Only four guards left.

Ray caught the next one by surprise, but the man let out a gasped cry before succumbing. The last three guards, who'd been huddled around Cal, sending a swift kick or two the medic's way, spun around. Hannibal, hands still bound, tackled one of them to the ground as he raised his rifle. The shots sprayed into the dirt as the two men tumbled downward.

Face had the second guard down before he got a shot off. The third got a round off before BA plowed him down. Didn't even have to snap the guy's neck, he just stomped right over him. The man went limp, mouth open, wide, unblinking eyes staring upward.

BA turned around, staring down at the body, waiting for that coursing rage to fade. Thing was, he _wanted _to keep killing. He _wanted _to throttle the life out of every goddamn thing around him. No one would cage him again. No one would...

"SHIT!"

He glanced over in time to see Hannibal dashing over to Cal.

The medic was still on the ground thrashing around. Each frantic kick reminded BA of a rabbit caught in a snare. He'd only seen that once, long ago, at a ranch his Mama had taken him to on vacation as a child, but the image stuck with him.

Hannibal was still softly cursing as he worked the knot loose, slipped it from Callaghan's neck, but, by that time, the small man had gone still.

BA stepped forward, eyes fixed on Cal, waiting for him to sit up, grin, laugh about how he was messin' with them. Hannibal shifted, hand settling on Cal's neck, checking for a pulse.

"Is he...?" Ray asked, voicing what no one else could find the nerve to.

Hannibal's shoulders relaxed a bit, a sigh escaping him before he answered. "No, just unconscious. BA, could you..."

Colonel didn't need to finish. BA was already moving forward. He was the only one with enough muscle left to carry the man, besides, he needed to. Little man would keep him from thinking about wandering off to find some more NVA soldiers to kill. His revenge was far from settled, but this wasn't the time. Carrying Cal would remind him of that.

BA freed himself of the rope around his neck and found a rifle to shoulder before he bent down to gently pick Cal up. The little shit hardly weighed a lick. Somehow that surprised BA. For all the big talk Cal had, BA had expected him to be partially built of brick, but that was not the case.

It took only a few minutes for everyone to be free of their ropes, gather some weapons and supplies and start moving out. They wasted no time. No one spoke, asked questions or gave any hesitation. They simply set off in whatever direction Hannibal picked.

Rest was not an option. They stopped only when a possible threat of being discovered came too near. This happened only twice that day. By the time they halted, darkness had overtaken the jungle. Cal had still not wakened and BA could see the worry clearly on even the colonel's face.

He set the medic down on top of a leafy palm and dropped down beside him.

"Man, you'd better wake up soon or I'm gonna leave your Mick ass behind." He waited, hoping for a response, but none came.

Ray settled down on the other side of Cal. "Maybe he just needs a little more time." There was something too hurt, too wanting in the Lt.'s voice that startled BA.

"You ok, man?"

The smile creeping on Ray's face was a weak attempt to confirm he was, but the sadness, the worry in his eyes betrayed that. "Yeah, sure."

"Ain't time to hold on to anything."

Ray turned his head, staring off into the jungle. "I..." He paused, a deep sigh replacing whatever it was he was going to say.

BA shrugged. He couldn't make the man talk if he didn't want to. Besides, it wasn't like BA could fix anything, and he really wasn't so sure he wanted to be opening up any bottled up emotions _anyone _was dealing with, including himself.

"I lost my wire." Ray blurted out. "Cal said he had an extra, but..." He looked back at BA, his brow wrinkled, eyes red, watery. "...that was a lie, wasn't it? He used his on me. He told me not to worry, that you'd all get me home." He turned away, wiping his face with a dirty sleeve. "I didn't want this. Hell, he's just a kid. He had no right to..."

"Would you shut that bellyachin' down?" The voice was raspy, hoarse, but unmistakable.

BA and Ray looked down at the man between them. Cal tried to sit up and then seemed to think better of it.

"Holy shit, my head hurts," he croaked, glancing from BA to Ray. "Which one of you lugs was dancin' on my noggin?"

"Cal, I..."

Ray couldn't get any more out before the medic was silencing him.

"Shut it, I've got too much of a headache to hear apologies." Cal did manage a large, crooked grin. "I do expect care packages every weekend after you get back though. I'm thinking booze and girly magazines."

The weary chuckle from Ray seemed to end the conversation. Cal closed his eyes again, either drifting off to sleep or needing a moment to himself. BA wasn't sure which it was, but he really didn't care. Either way, the man was fine.

He glanced over to his right, finding Face and Murdock not far off, huddled beneath a tree. They were talking quietly, voices so low BA could only hear them faintly now that he concentrated all his focus on them, but he still could not make out what it was they said. It wasn't that he wanted to know, not really. Some part of him was wary of knowing, of getting too close to Murdock. He couldn't be sure of what it was. Was he afraid of the man snapping again? Somehow he didn't think that was it. No. It was something else. There was something fragile about the man now, and BA had never done well with fragile things. He broke them too easily.

"I'm heading out."

BA blinked, coming abruptly out of his thoughts and staring up at Hannibal.

A small pack on his shoulder and a rifle in hand, Hannibal held a grim smile in place. "If I'm not back by noon tomorrow, leave without me. Ray, you know the plan."

By this point, Face was on his feet, moving through the dim jungle toward them. Murdock stayed behind, becoming more and more hidden in the growing shadows.

"You can't be serious." The exasperation was clear in Face's voice. "You're leaving? To do what? Get captured again? Die? Christ, Hannibal, you can't just..."

"Stow it, Lieutenant." Hannibal pivoted on his heels, turning away. "You're not my 0-2 yet." And with that he slid silently into the brush and vanished.

Cal managed to hoist himself into a sitting position. Blinking groggily at his comrades, he asked, "What the hell was that about?"

BA shook his head, wondering the same damn thing.


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-five**

It was hard to say with absolute certainty where the bombing site would be. Hell, the only absolute in war was death. That much, at least, Hannibal knew.

He waited on the ridge, eyes scanning the horizon of Laos. The position he'd found would do well enough for now. The two most likely locations for Operation Menu's next bomb run sat, as best as he could guess, equidistant from him. A hardy trek, nearly a flat-out run through the jungle terrain would suffice in getting him to either before dawn.

To say the plan was foolish after this point was a vast understatement. Traveling swiftly, in the dark no less, through the jungle was an idiotic move. Adding the fact that he'd be heading into known hostile territory only multiplied the stupidity.

Shifting anxiously, he kept his eyes trained on the landscape. It would happen soon or not at all. Doubt started seeping in as the minutes ticked by. Maybe Ray had been right. They'd been out of the loop too long. Maybe the operation had been scrapped? Rerouted? Had the enemy shifted their supply line? It didn't help that he'd been informed of most of these plans by a second or third hand source when they'd been back at the base. Funny how tight lipped the Army could be about these _secret _operations. Maybe this wasn't a target area anymore?

_Shit. _He started scrambling for a plan B, but there was no plan B. That plan was walking, evading, fighting like hell and, ultimately, losing some of his men. Face wouldn't make it. A few more days in the jungle and his strength would be spent. Murdock too would succumb. Hannibal could see that as clear as day. BA and Ray had the best chance, with Cal falling somewhere in the middle ground.

The faint hum of an engine high overhead had him relaxing just a tick. Then, the first distant explosion sounded. It was at the site slightly to the south. That was all he needed to set him into motion. He'd have to move fast, and that meant using well-worn trails. Booby-traps would be a problem, but there was no time for caution. It was a risk, at this point, he was willing to take.

Fifteen minutes of running brought no problems, but after that he was hampered by pits and wire traps. Most he managed to evade or get through fairly unscathed. But, after another half hour of running, he had to abandon the trail because of a unit of North Vietnamese Army soldiers who'd set up camp. He had no choice but to backtrack, find a new trail and make the long loop around the soldiers. Luck had been on his side though. If they'd spotted him...Well, he didn't even want to think about that.

He kept on moving, being careful not to crash and bumble through the jungle, but the trail became choked with growth and his travel slowed.

The first light of dawn was already breaking as he neared the smoking remains of a village. Besides the crackling of fires finishing up their work on the shells of a few huts, everything was quiet. There were no cries of wounded or dying, no dogs barking or soldiers hustling about.

The village, suspected of being a munitions storage area, had obviously been long since abandoned. Hannibal stayed hidden in the leafy undergrowth still, wary of the wide open expanse. One well positioned sniper was all it would take. He scanned the surrounding jungle, deciding to make a few passes before braving the village.

By the time he'd finished his patrol, morning was fully lit, and the sound of an engine loomed in the distance. The Cessna 0-1 Bird Dog loomed into sight. She was flying low, as Forward Air Control normally did—the pilot more than a little familiar with the terrain.

Brass would want a recount of the damage done. They'd have known from the start that the village was deserted. Still, it was better to wipe it out while it was empty than leave it for the enemy to retake. Hannibal couldn't fault that.

After taking a deep breath, hopefully not his last, he stepped into the clearing and paused. Only the growing sound of the plane's engine greeted him. Two more strides and he made up his mind. He had the green light.

Not wasting any more time, he trotted out into the middle of a field, snatching up a pole and a length of tattered rag from the ground as he did so. A quick knot had the cloth attached to the pole, and he hefted it up, waving it back and forth.

For once, his shock of greying sandy-blond hair would work to his advantage. That alone would give the pilot reason to pause, to turn back and get a better look. And, just like Hannibal had guessed, the man did.

The plane banked back, making a low pass overhead as Hannibal dropped the makeshift flag and waved his arms above his head. The only object Lin hadn't been able to get him was a small piece of mirror. That would cost him now, dearly. Without it, he had no way of relaying a message to the plane. He'd hoped to pick something up in the village, a strip of metal or broken piece of glass, but that was not to be.

He kept searching, almost frantic as the plane banked around again. It couldn't end like this. One simple goddamn scrap of metal being his downfall...

At the crunch of soil and rock, the subtle change of the engine noise, Hannibal started, quickly searching the plane's new location out. But, it was no longer airborne. The pilot had, against all ration and reason, landed. He'd put the O-1 down on a stretch of field that was too short and too questionable for any sane pilot to attempt. Murdock would've loved it.

Hannibal tossed his rifle down, making sure there was no room for misunderstanding, and made his way to the plane. The pilot didn't cut the engine, so he wasn't totally daft. He'd even turned the plane, ready to take off at a moment's notice if need be.

The door to the cockpit swung open as Hannibal neared. The pilot, a thin, ruddy faced man with a mustache that looked oddly like a pair of walrus tusks, grinned down at him. Whatever welcome was written on the pilot's face was not, however, matched by the co-pilot. The dark skinned, curly haired man wasn't even going to try hiding the fact his pistol was trained on Hannibal. All in all, they made a nice pair.

"HULLO! WHATCHA DOING OUT HERE?" There was an interesting accent mingled in the pilot's voice, some strange mix of Scottish and Bostonian that seemed far more comical than genuine. Bellowing and jolly, nothing of the man's voice was lost amid the loud, steady whirl of the plane's prop.

"My men and I escaped from Son Tay. We need a lift."

"YOU NEED A LIFT?" The pilot turned to his co-pilot. "SAM, HE NEEDS A LIFT...WE GOT ROOM, YAH?"

"NO," Hannibal shouted. Shit, he was going to have to speed this up or they were going to draw all kinds of unwanted attention. "MY MEN AND I NEED A LIFT."

The pilot turned back, his face pinched in concern maybe even apology. "WE DON'T HAVE THAT KIND OF ROOM..."

Hannibal was quick to cut him off. "TONIGHT, 0-700, EXACTLY TWO KLICKS EAST OF HERE. HAVE A HUEY COME TO THE MARKED LZ. YOU GOT ANY SMOKE GRENADES?"

The co-pilot lowered his pistol just enough to hand two smoke grenades over to the pilot, who, in turn, handed them to Hannibal.

"WHITE FOR ALL CLEAR. BLUE FOR HOT LZ BUT YOU STILL BETTER FUCKING LAND, UNDERSTAND?" Hannibal wasn't joking, but he still liked the way the pilot chuckled at that. The man understood just fine.

"AND WHO CAN I SAY ORDERED THIS?" The co-pilot asked, his tone far more disapproving than the pilot's. Hannibal would've bet his pension that he hadn't been as willing to land as his friend had.

"JOHN_ HANNIBAL_ SMITH, AND IF ANYONE GIVES YOU HELL JUST TELL THEM I'LL HAVE A WORD WITH _THEM _WHEN I GET BACK, BECAUSE WHETHER THEY SEND HELP OR NOT, I'LL BE BACK. THE ONLY REAL CALL THEY HAVE ON THE MATTER IS HOW PISSED I AM WHEN I GET THERE."

Suddenly, the pistol was lowered. The friendly smile on the pilot's face was gone. "SIR, YES SIR!" A snapped salute followed the reply. That was good enough for Hannibal. After one last hard glare, satisfied he'd put the fear of god into these men, he turned and headed back to the safety of the jungle.

He was tired as hell. Every taunt muscle in his body was begging for rest, but until his body actually gave up on him, he'd keep pushing. All he could muster was a slow trot, but that was fine. In the light of day, he'd have to be more wary. Soldiers would be roaming the trails now, and he couldn't afford a run in with any of them.

He'd thought of hitching a ride in the plane to a locale closer to his boys, but there'd be no guarantee the plane could set down again, and the commotion would only draw enemy attention. He couldn't chance that.

Several times he had to dash off into the jungle and hide in the brush. Three times he turned back, choosing a different, less occupied trail instead. All the while, the sun steadily climbed its way to the peak of the sky. In fact, it reached its pinnacle well before Hannibal reached his destination. He kept going though, hoping that dogged stubbornness in his men had kept them from obeying his command, kept them from leaving without him.

Nearing where he'd left his team, he picked up the pace. Nothing looked disturbed, no one had been rooting around, searching the area. For that he was thankful.

"At ease boys," he called in a low tone, hoping to ease any nerves and bring his guys out of hiding.

But, the silence signaled what he already feared. They were gone.


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-six**

After Hannibal left, Murdock couldn't help himself. The pull of his exhaustion was too strong. He drifted off to sleep feeling the chill of the jungle night settling into his bones. So, the smothering warmth he woke to was unexpected.

He shifted, the warm body to his left body not budging an inch as he did so. From the weight, the way the man leaned in but still managed to keep to himself, the ominous feel of nearness and space both, at once, emanating from the large body, Murdock could tell it was BA.

To his right, he could hear Face's raspy breath in his ear. He could feel an arm wrapped around his shoulders, bringing the tight pull of comfort and friendship. Callaghan wasn't far off, his nostrils still giving off a faint whistling wheeze as he drew in air. He was probably sprawled up beside Face, huddled for warmth as well. Silent as a grave, Ray could've been anywhere in the pile, but Murdock was sure he was there, somewhere.

They shouldn't have settled in that way. It made them too easy a target, too likely to all be taken out at once, but it didn't matter. Only the warmth, the need for sleep, and the fact they could be reassured, by touch, that they weren't alone mattered.

The only thing missing was Hannibal.

Murdock strained to listen, to focus on the distant sounds of the jungle around them. He wasn't sure if anyone was keeping watch. Ray might've been. Hell, he probably was. The man wouldn't get this close to freedom, to Trish, and let it all fall away because of one night's lack of vigilance.

They _all _should've been taking turns at keeping watch, but Murdock was too tired to vocalize that let alone volunteer himself. Plus, speaking up wouldn't change what was required of him. His thoughts wandered back to their earlier escape, the hard, long march. He'd noticed the way the guys looked at him, watched him, as if gauging his sanity.

No. They wouldn't let him take watch.

At that realization, he squeezed his eyes shut a little tighter. Even in the pitch black of the jungle, the darkness of his lids seemed more absolute. He tried to focus on that void, keep the other thoughts at bay, but it did no good.

Memories not long formed of fleeing through the jungle resurfaced—BA taking point, Hannibal tracking their route, Ray bringing up the rear, Callaghan and Face staying so close. Face was never more than an arm's reach away, and those looks they all gave him...

Careful not to wake anyone, he freed his arms and raised them to his head, rubbing his palms hard against his forehead. The pain, the tension eased a little with the added pressure to his skull, but that wouldn't last.

The growled sigh that came from BA made Murdock still and slowly lower his arms. He'd been too much of a burden, too much of a risk to deprive them of anything else. Waking them, any of them, was something he wouldn't do. Instead, he opened his eyes, staring off into the hollow of night. The distant cry of startled gibbons had him tensing for a moment, but, as the primates settled down, quieted, he relaxed.

Someone in the group stirred, and a murmur of conversation was exchanged so quietly that none of it properly reached Murdock's ears. The voices went silent and the gentle rustle of leaves signaled someone's departure. Since BA and Face were still beside him, it must've been Cal and Ray talking, one of them must've headed out into the night to take up watch.

Still, even with the added security of a sentry, Murdock felt a pang of unease. What had startled the gibbons at this hour? A jungle cat? A python?

More than the potential wildlife disturbing the apes though, Murdock worried about the human element that could've been involved.

He couldn't go back—not to Son Tay or any other POW camp. Mentally, physically, he couldn't take another round of what the camps had to offer. Even the mere thought of being recaptured tightened his chest, brought a swell of terror to him like he's never known before.

To still the panic, he wanted to move, walk, run, talk, sing, anything, but he didn't. He sat, staring into the darkness before him, watching, as the hours passed, the birth of the drab morning light.

Slight movements to his right let Murdock know that Face was awake. Slowly, the arm that was snaked around his shoulders withdrew itself, the warmth beside him shifting away just a hair.

"Morning." Cal offered quietly.

Keeping still, closing his eyes as he feigned sleep, Murdock leaned a little heavier toward BA. The big man didn't stir, didn't move an inch. He must've still been out.

"Hannibal back yet?" Face asked. The exhaustion, lingering pull of sleep was still evident in his voice.

Cal's weary sigh should've been answer enough, but still he replied, "Not yet."

Again Face shifted, slowly at first before he suddenly jerked upright, nearly springing into a crouch. "Ray?" There was an edge of tension in the lone word, one that had Murdock instinctively sitting up as well.

Murdock stared wide-eyed first at Face and then scanned the two other men with them. Ray was nowhere to be seen.

"He's just doing a little scouting, making sure our tracks are covered, seeing if he can spot Hannibal." Cal stood not far off from them, his rifle at the ready as he kept watch. Judging by how dog-tired he looked, the little man hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. "He should be back soon." Cal added and Murdock realized that the comforting line was directed toward him. He nodded dumbly in response, not trusting his voice.

BA woke not long after that and was quick to grumble over the fool Ray going off on his own.

A tense hour passed and still Ray hadn't returned. Face doled out meager rations of the hard bread that they'd scavenged from the bodies of the NVA guards. They wouldn't yet risk trying to cook up any of the rice they'd taken. That they'd save for later.

It was BA who broke up their somber meal. Standing, shouldering his rifle, he announced gruffly, "I'm going after Ray."

Face stood, a stern expression in place as he stared down the larger man, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Ray stumbling through the brush.

Out of breath, Ray took a knee but kept at the ready as his steady gaze remained on the section of jungle he'd just emerged from. "NVA soldiers, seven of them maybe, on patrol," he panted. "Led them away before they got any closer…got to a stream…but they might backtrack once they figure I gave them the slip." He paused, brow furrowed as he took in another deep breath. "Hannibal's got two hours left. After that…" He looked up, slowly making eye contact with each man before continuing. "…we head out."

At first, Murdock couldn't tell which pull of dread was worse—the thought of leaving Hannibal behind or the notion of being recaptured. Then, with sudden, sickening clarity, it struck him. He didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but his fear of the camp outweighed his concern for his CO.

Cal shifted nervously, a sad attempt at a smile creeping onto his face. "Hannibal will make it back. Bastard can't be taken out. Hell, you all know him."

Face and Ray gave mumbled sounds of agreement. BA said nothing, staring off into the jungle. There was some hint of defeat already melding into the big guy's scowl, as if he could sense Hannibal wouldn't make it back in time.

"Shit," Ray snapped. "We're not leaving anyone behind, not if we can help it. Face, take lookout near that larger trail to the East. BA, take up a spot in the jungle to the south. Cal, take the north. Don't venture too far. Stay within earshot. You know the calls. Use them. No gunfire unless you have no other choice. And, Murdock…" He hesitated, doubt flickering across his expression. "You'll stay here with me. We'll _all _meet back here at 1200 hours, understood?"

BA, Face and Cal gave quick grunts of approval before gathering their weapons and silently setting out. There was no idle chatter, no glances back.

And, Murdock just watched them leave. He knew his place well enough. He was too broken to be of use. Hunching back down, tucking his chin to his chest he started to dig in for the long wait.

"And just what do you think you're doing?"

He glanced back up, finding Ray frowning down at him. The lieutenant gave a weary sigh before plopping down next to Murdock and offering his rifle over.

"I didn't see you out there running your ass off just now." Ray added. "I sleep, you make sure I don't get blown to smithereens. Fair enough? Actually, don't answer that. I don't care if it's fair. I'm too tired to care."

Murdock took the AK-47, watching Ray's expression carefully, but there was no hint of doubt, no unease, nothing but exhaustion and maybe a flicker of annoyance at having to force the watch on Murdock when Ray sure as hell thought it was pretty obvious what their roles should be.

Slowly fumbling to his feet and shouldering the rifle, Murdock kept his eyes on Ray as the man laid back, stretched out and closed his eyes.

Murdock couldn't help it, he had to know. "Aren't you worried at all that I'll…ya know?"

Ray tilted his head up and flashed a weary glare. "What? Keep me awake? Yeah, I'm worried about that, because that's exactly what you're doing."

"No…" Murdock paused, feeling foolish, wondering if he should just drop the question, but some stubborn part of him pushed on. "Aren't you worried that I'll…be like I was before."

Ray's frown grew a little deeper as he shook his head, the understanding obviously not coming to him.

"That I'll go crazy again."

The groan that accompanied Ray's head flopping back to the ground was not what Murdock had expected, nor was the answer the man gave. "Damn it, Murdock…I declare you sane…_or_ whatever. Just do me a solid and make sure no one does me in while I catch fifty winks, ok?"

It was as simple as that. A minute later, Ray was asleep. The man who had the most to lose, who was on the verge of being shipped home to the woman he loved, trusted him.

Maybe Ray didn't realize the gesture he'd made, maybe he did. Hell, Murdock didn't care at this point. All he knew was that he couldn't let his team down, that he _wouldn't _let his team down—not now or ever.

Slowly the hours passed. BA was the first to return, followed by Face and, lastly, Cal. They all reported hearing the patrol of NVA soldiers roaming through the jungle, but they were a ways off. Still, by now, they would've sent word that the escaped Americans were in the area. It would only be a matter of time before the jungle would be swarming with the enemy.

Murdock watched anxiously as the others in his group started slowly packing up their meager gear, preparing for the long hike. No one said anything. Hannibal's deadline had come and gone. Already they were stalling, trying to buy the colonel more time, but every minute they wasted could've been costing them their freedom, their lives.

It was a hard loss. Both their CO and their hopes of easier route home had vanished. Whatever Hannibal had up his sleeve would do them no good now.

Covering their tracks as best they could, they started off slow—Ray's pace a reflection of his reluctance to leave Hannibal behind. Murdock was grateful for that, for the loyalty of the unit.

Each step, every minute of travel, only further depleted Murdock's dwindling hope of seeing Hannibal. An hour in, he felt wholly drained. It wasn't just mentally either, though the grief was playing a number on him. Physically he knew he'd only last another day or two of hiking. His body would give out after that and they'd still be nowhere near safety.

Lost in his thoughts, Murdock ran into the back of Face as he halted. They both barely kept on their feet, but before Murdock could ask what the holdup was, his eyes roamed to the trail ahead.

Hannibal stood before them, hunched and gasping for breath but grinning like a maniac. "You boys are hard to catch up with. Now..." He straightened up, taking in a long deep breath before continuing. "Who wants to get out of this hellhole? I got us a ride."

"How?" Face asked. His voice reflecting the astonishment, the disbelief that Murdock felt.

Hannibal chuckled. "Does it really matter?" Turning away, he motioned for them to follow. "Come on, boys. We're going home."

And just like that they were trudging through the jungle again, but this time they had hope or at least Murdock did. He'd wanted to ask how long, how far they'd have to go to reach the transport, but a part of him was afraid of the answer. It needed to be soon. Hell, it needed to be _now._

Hours later, after two stops for rest, they were still hiking, still picking their way through the dense bush. Murdock wouldn't say so, but his legs had gone beyond aching. They'd grown numb with pain, feet blistered and bleeding, soaked in the jungle rotten boots. It had to be the same with the others, right? Head down, he plodded on behind Face, focusing solely on keeping his muscles pumping, his body moving forward.

He'd hardly noticed as they wandered into a clearing, his vision blurred with fatigue. No, that wasn't fatigue_. _White smoke? When had Hannibal gotten a hold of smoke grenades?

Then that musical _whomp-whomp-whomp_ filled his ears and he looked up. The sight of that Huey lowering herself down toward the earth brought tears to his eyes. He didn't know or care how Hannibal had done it. All that mattered was that he _did _do it.

The elephant grass did a frantic dance before bowing as the chopper's skids touched down. The two door gunners were out of the Slick in a flash, scrambling toward Hannibal's group.

Murdock couldn't help but continue to grin at that beautiful bird, even as a gunner ran up beside him, giving support. Apparently, he'd been in worse condition than he'd thought. In the end, it took both gunners to ease him into the Slick, and though they tried to get him to lay down, he refused.

There was no way in hell he wanted to miss the sight of that jungle vanishing beneath them. This was going to be one of the best flights he'd ever taken, even if he wasn't the pilot.


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

January 28, 1970

It'd been over a week since they'd been back in Da Nang, and the first flush of comfort the army cots provided had long since worn off for Face. That was just the first sign he was returning to his former, more human, self.

He shimmied onto his stomach, resting on his elbows with his head cradled in his palms as he stared over at Murdock. The silence as of late had been unsettling.

In his own cot, not more than five feet away, Murdock was hunched over a book, seemingly reading. Of course, Face sure as hell knew that wasn't the case, seeing as he hadn't turned a damned page in over an hour and the man was a freakish speed-reader by nature.

"Hey buddy," Face called, using that soft, comforting tone he'd perfected so long ago. "What you reading?"

"Nothing." Murdock gave a slight shrug and tossed the book aside. He turned, tight grin in place, eyes sparkling with a resilient, sad joy. "What's up, Muchacho? Wanna go get a bite to eat?"

Face frowned. The mess hall food, much like the cots, had lost its initial charm after their return from Son Tay. "Naw, not really."

Further across the room, BA shifted in his sleep, the cot beneath him groaning under his weight. For a moment, the two were quiet as they watched the sergeant.

_So much for my private officer's quarters..._

And yet that thought didn't frustrate Face nearly as much as it should've. In fact, he was still a little baffled as to how he'd given up the perk so easily, why he'd asked Murdock to bunk with him, why he didn't kick BA out when the man showed up on his doorstep and started moving in. Hell, he'd even asked Cal if he wanted to stay there, but the little man declined. When it came down to it, Face had to admit to himself, if no one else, that he felt safer with them around. They knew what it was like out there. They knew what could happen. When the night fell, when he had to give in to that pull for sleep, he wanted _them _nearby, at least for now.

The sweet, faint aroma of cigar smoke carried into the room and Face turned, instinctively, to peer out one of the screened windows.

Hannibal was perched outside, atop a crate, just within sight but far enough away that he wouldn't be able to overhear anything in their hooch. His cigar, a Monetcristo, must've been his sixteenth or seventeenth from the box of twenty-five Face had finagled for him. If the man only knew half of what it took to get those Cubans to the armpit of the world, he'd probably be rationing them out a little more.

The gift had a twofold purpose though. It was a good gauge to see if the colonel would be willing to look the other way if Face made certain _acquisitions _for the team and it was a big, fat 'thank you for saving my sorry ass.'

Cal stood next to Hannibal, talking in his animated way. Their conversation was relaxed, friendly. If anything, they were just shooting the shit, waiting, killing time until they were green-lighted for duty.

Face glanced back at Murdock and caught the pilot staring out the window at their two comrades as well. There was worry etched in the pilot's expression, his mouth drawn in a faint, tight frown, his eyes narrowed, unblinking.

Something had changed in Murdock. It wasn't anything big, anything that anyone else would've noticed but Face did. He found it in those moments when he expected to hear the pilot's off-the-wall additions thrown into a conversation, but instead Murdock would only give a lopsided, toothy grin, his voice locked away. It was in the way that bulge danced in his cheek when he clenched his jaw—_that _happened a lot more often lately, especially in those moments his gaze went distance, his eyes dulling as he stared off at nothing in particular.

"_You _want to go get a bite to eat?" Face asked, desperate to erase that hurt and worry clouding over his friend.

Murdock blinked, his attention turning back to Face before a slow smile crept back onto his expression. "Not really. Don't think my belly can handle another round of mystery meat."

"Yeah, I hear you there..." _Shit, why'd this all feel so forced all of the sudden? _Face maneuvered into a sitting position, letting his feet slide to the floor. "Want to go for a walk?" It was the same fallback plan every time—the only one that could draw that old, unwounded personality out of the pilot. Walks always, inevitably, took them to the airfields. The sight of the choppers would perk Murdock up. It was about the only damn thing that could.

With a bright smile, Murdock was on his feet. "I think I could handle that."

* * *

BA stayed still, even long after Murdock and Face left the hooch. Fools were trying to work something out, something he didn't really want to be a part of. 'Sides, he'd probably just mess it up. He wasn't good with all the touchy-feely emotional stuff.

He didn't see what the problem was though, not really. Fool-ass pilot seemed more normal than he'd ever been. There wasn't no more jabbering about things that didn't make any damn sense. The man seemed fine, but Face was tip-toeing around him like he was made of spun glass. Didn't make sense.

Whatever happened in the camp...Well, BA didn't want to think about that anymore. That was done, finished. It was time to move on.

He rolled over, eyeing the empty room. The gold chain around his neck shifted, the light metal tickling his chest as it settled.

Course, it was harder to move on if you was dead. A part of him was almost mad at Dom for giving the chain back, for giving him something that would make him remember. Hannibal had handed it over after they'd gotten on the chopper that had plucked them from that hellhole of a jungle. Later, the colonel told the team about how Dom was taken. For some reason Face seemed to take the story the hardest. He looked almost sick at the telling.

BA brushed the memories aside as he sat up. There was plenty to do rather than sitting round making himself miserable. He knew for a fact there was a whole row of jeeps just waiting for some able-bodied person to take a wrench to them.

_But first..._

The pen and paper had been laying out on the desk next to his cot for nearly four days. He shouldn't have put it off this long. That wasn't fair, not to her.

Picking up the pen, the first words were easy.

_**Dear Mama, **_

_**I'm ok. I love you. **_

The rest would be more difficult. He paused. She'd want an explanation, to know what happened, but he just wasn't sure how to do that.

* * *

Hannibal gave a deep chuckle as he listened to Cal spin his story. Seems the medic had been picking up Face's bad habits after they'd gotten back to Da Nang. Cal's adventures were far less cunning though and usually ended in unpredictable ways.

His current tale involved three angry Marines, a stuffed donkey's head and an aged, stout Vietnamese woman who kept calling Cal 'Fred' for some reason. Hannibal was uncertain of the precise details. Following Cal's stories was like trying to make sense of a dream. Sometimes they were just disjointed gibberish that you had to learn to enjoy for what it was.

He eyed the medic as he continued on with his tale. The time in Son Tay had aged Hannibal, given him a few more grey hairs in that lone month, but Cal...

Hannibal didn't know how the man did it. He didn't know how Cal seemed to come out without a care in the world, as if he was the same goddamn person he was before all the shit went down. And, for the most part, Cal was just that—from what Hannibal could see at least.

As for the rest of the unit, Hannibal still had his doubts. Murdock sat foremost in his thoughts. The pilot had been calm, rational lately, but something about that act felt off kilter. Then there was the fact that the colonel had already been visited by a few spook types inquiring as to the mental health of his pilot. Visiting Agents didn't bode well for the captain, especially not when they were gunning for him to get a quick section eight.

And, he could already tell Face was going to have one hell of an uphill battle as his second in command. The kid had the talent for it. Hannibal just wasn't sure yet if he had the drive.

He wouldn't be so hasty to jump to any decisions though. For now, his mind was made. He'd give the men a few more missions, then reassess from there.

* * *

Murdock was twitching as he eyed the Gunship taking off. He could almost feel the stick in his hand as he watched the bird lift up. Damn, he wanted to be up there so bad.

On the ground, everything felt so confined, so much like a prison still, but up there was different. Up there he was free. He'd felt it on that chopper ride from the jungle. It would've been better if he'd been behind the controls too. He knew that.

Face was standing off behind him somewhere, chatting with a nurse they'd bumped into. She was asking all the cordial, polite and even professional questions first. '_How are you? Is everything healing properly?' _Then, of course, it moved on to any inquires as to whether Face needed any company later in the evening to settle any rattled nerves.

Murdock had moved off, just far enough away to give them some privacy, but not so far as to alarm Face. The fact that Face had been keeping a close eye on him hadn't been lost on Murdock, but he wasn't going to push the matter any. No, he wasn't going to do anything at all to stir things up.

Staring at a Slick coming in for a set-down, Murdock vowed to be on his best behavior. He promised himself he'd be up in a bird again, that he'd be Hannibal's pilot for as long as he could manage. All he had to do was keep his sanity. Simple, right?


	29. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**Barlow Creek, Oklahoma **

**February 14, 1970**

Ray woke to the gentle perfume of lavender. He pulled the scent in, leaning close to its source, the silk of her hair caressing his cheeks as he did so. Her shampoo, god how he loved her shampoo.

Those simple things, those everyday aspects of life, things he took for such granted before the war, made him ache with how much he needed this life, how much he needed her. Hot damn, how'd he never noticed before how good she smelled?

Trish nuzzled closer, her head resting comfortably near the crook of his arm. He wanted to reach out, hold her, feel her, but he kept still. It was early. They'd had a late night. Reluctantly, he decided to let her rest.

Carefully, he eased off the bed. Trish gave a deep sigh, but remained wrapped in her cocoon of dreams. He watched her for a moment, taking in the peace, the beauty of her sleeping form. Then, he turned and quietly padded out of the room and down the stairs.

_Coffee_—that was his first mission. He'd have it brewing, maybe even have breakfast made before Trish found her way downstairs. It'd been so long since he'd had that luxury, surprising her with something that should've been a ritual by now. Before he'd left for the war he'd always gotten up before her, and yet every time she hauled herself downstairs, she always gushed that he'd made the coffee or buttered the toast. And on the days he actually cooked?

Ray grinned. _Those _thank yous were his favorite.

He got the coffee pot humming, percolating the rich, dark ground beans Trish was so fond of. Good coffee, that was going to take some getting used to again.

He set to work pulling eggs, sausages and bacon out of the fridge. He'd thought about making french toast, but, discovering they were out of syrup, he scrapped that idea. Too bad—that was Trish's favorite breakfast.

It took a while for him to hunt down the frying pan. Trish must've reorganized the kitchen while he was overseas. He felt odd being a bit of a stranger in his own kitchen. After finally pulling the pan from a cupboard that used to house canned goods, Ray set it on the counter and started a new search for their spices. They were, apparently, no longer above the stove.

A sharp crash, a loud, sudden clatter vibrated through him. The sound had a rush of adrenaline instantly sending his heart into overdrive, his senses a blur of hyperactivity. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, keeping close to the counter for cover.

"_Honey?_"

Breathing hard, he glanced up, catching sight of someone at the foot of the stairs.

She had on her silk robe, the smooth crimson clinging to her every curve. For a split second, he didn't recognize her though, couldn't place her in this world he'd reverted back to. _This was the war...this was Vietnam...this was...home?_

He blinked, trying to drown out his confusion. The frying pan lay on the floor not far from him. He must've knocked it from the counter during his search for the spices. There was no enemy, no danger, no jungle.

Then, he looked to Trish, waiting for the hurt, for the pity to flash across her face. He thought he could already see it in those wide, searching eyes as she stood there staring down at him. Was she afraid to move, to come near? God, that thought hurt more than anything else he'd been through.

Ray closed his eyes as he tried to calm his breathing. He could hear Trish moving now. Her footsteps were intentionally loud, so he'd hear her approach. Most days she moved like a cat's shadow, impossibly quiet.

"You started the coffee." Her voice was soft, embracing. "Thank you. How'd I get to be so lucky?" The question was honest, full of love.

He looked up only to find that faint, beautiful smile lighting her expression. There was no fear, no pity. The warmth of her touch softly landed on his shoulders, guiding him to stand, to lean into her.

"I love you so much, Babe. Thank you." The words came out as a breathy whisper in his ear as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. After a few moments locked in a silent embrace, she spoke again. "Go take a shower, Honey, I'll finish up here. Breakfast will be done by the time you get out."

"Do I smell or something?" He murmured back. That wasn't it, and he knew it. This was a saving grace for him, a way he could step aside and pull his shit together if he needed to.

Trish could handle a returning soldier's nerves. Her father had been a mess after World War II. She'd told Ray as much before he shipped off. She knew about the nightmares, the anger. Flashbacks and that sullen quietness were all too familiar to her. She'd faced them all in her younger days and Ray had fully intended to save her from that again, _but..._

She smiled up at him, her hands settling on his cheeks as she held his head, looking him straight in the eyes. "You _always _smell. Now, go shower."

He leaned in, stealing one warm, long kiss before she pushed him away. Her playful laugh ringing in his ears as he turned, grinning, toward the stairs.

By the time he reached their bedroom though, that warm love, that reassurance she'd filled him with was gone.

One dropped pan and he'd gone back there, even if only in his head. And, that wasn't the first time. Countless nights he'd already woken up in a cold sweat, panting, searching his bedside for...for...what? His rifle? But he wasn't in 'Nam, not anymore. He kept thinking he'd convinced himself of that, but then something would trigger the memories all over again. So, he wasn't free, not entirely.

He quickly stripped out of his boxers, hurrying into the shower, as if his actions, his movements could stunt the thoughts from coming. A turn of the knob and the shower-head came to life. He stood, letting the force of the water soak into his hair, massage his scalp.

His team—he wondered, for the millionth time, how they were doing. Not knowing was maddening. Part of his homecoming felt more like being severed from something so vital, so necessary—not so much for the sake of the war but for his team.

_What if..._

Ray grabbed the soap, lathering up his chest and neck. He was fumbling now, reaching for any action that would keep him occupied. There were too many '_what ifs_,' too many ways to blame himself for things that hadn't yet happened.

Hannibal was a strong leader. The team was strong. They'd be fine.

Ray maneuvered himself under the stream of water, rising off the suds.

Sooner or later, they'd all be home again. They'd all be safe. Maybe the nightmares would end then. Maybe his mind would quit wandering back to those thick, humid jungles, to the dark, lonely cells and nights filled with gunfire and the cries of the wounded and dying. Maybe.

He was startled from his thoughts as the door to the master bathroom creaked open. That moment of fight or flight quickly subsided as he spotted Trish in the doorway, her robe gone.

She arched a brow, her stance graceful, coyly seductive. "Breakfast can wait. Is there room for two?"

_Oh yeah..._

_**Fini**  
_

* * *

_**A/N: Thank you to all who've followed this story. The next in this series has been started but I make no promises on how quickly it will be posted. I must again thank Quentillian, AprilDancer007, Kiki and Tiggertoo for their help. Tiggertoo especially had a large part in much of the character dialogue. I believe some of the most wonderful lines from the story were hers. **  
_

_**It may not all be totally canon, but this is how I've envisioned the team's early years. **_


End file.
